Something Wicked This Way Comes
by The Reviews Lounge
Summary: A series of oneshots- each by a different author - for the Reviews Lounge Halloween Project. R&R please."
1. Pansy Parkinson

**_Anything you recognise belongs to JK Rowling. We are just having fun playing in her world._**

**_Please read and review._**

**What's Expected**

_(Pansy Parkinson)_

_by_

_x Dramione4Lyf x_

Pansy sat at the Slytherin table, quietly picking at her food that no longer seemed appetising. She didn't see what the big deal was, it was a ball. A feast, whatever you wanted to call it, it was still the same. Girls were squealing with excitement, which she would normally be taking part in, while the boys seemed to even like the idea.

She stole a glance at Draco, irritation was written across his face. So he wasn't so fond of the idea.

Pansy looked to the left of Draco and quickly found out why he was scowling.

"Oh, but Drake, how will I know which one is you?" Daphne moaned, while her friend Tracey Davis was chatting animatedly, with seemingly, no one.

"Daphne, we're not going out even. You won't know it's me. That's the point" he spoke the last part slowly. Daphne backed away bit by bit, but her eyes stayed glued to the blonde.

Pansy shook her head at Daphne, she knew how that felt. She herself was once enamoured with Draco, and while he at least gave her the time of day, he didn't give pay much attention to her.

Uninterested would be a fitting word really.

"Shush now, calm down." Professor McGonagall reprimanded. The Hall quietened and she continued "The masquerade Ball will take place on Halloween night. You will all be given your outfits. Masks will be worn until midnight. The masks will be put on magically, so that you will not be able to remove them. If anyone has any inquiries please, do not hesitate from asking."

The old professor sat down and rubbed her head wearily as the Hall exploded, once more, into chatter. Pansy had a good mind to walk out.

It wasn't that she didn't like dressing up, because by Merlin she did, but this just wasn't her thing.

No one would know it was her, she wouldn't get to pick out her own dress, and …she could be talking to anyone and not realise it. A Hufflepuff could be dancing with her all night and she wouldn't know. A _Gryffindor _could be joking and laughing with her all night and she wouldn't have the foggiest.

It was a disaster waiting to happen, though she supposed the reason for the Ball was the facts she mention above.

House unity. Pansy snorted, that was never happening. Slytherin's and Gryffindor's just weren't meant to work together.

"Hey, Parks! You okay? Awfully quiet tonight. Usually, you would be jumping up and down screaming" he smirked

Pansy mock scowled at him "Oh please, Blaise. You are worse than me on my good days."

Blaise feigned injury "I am insulted. Deeply hurt. How you could say such things Pans, I don't know"

"How many times have I begged you not to call me that?"

"Pans? Oh..never. It would be an interesting sight I must say. Pansy begging…No, you threatened me. I believe it was something along the lines of 'Call me that _one more time _and I'll hex your balls off' nice choice of words Pans"

"I said you could call me Parks, you are never happy"

Blaise grinned and shrugged, returning to his previous activity of devouring his dinner.

Pansy's eyes drifted to the Hufflepuff table as she contemplated talking to one…Hannah Abbott was was waving her arms about elaborately while Ernie MacMillan nodded interestedly. Pansy couldn't even conjure an image in her head of them talking. What the hell would they talk about? PEACE? Feeling self assured that she wouldn't be conversing with any Hufflepuff's, she allowed her eyes to skim over the Hufflepuff table to the Ravenclaw.

Ravenclaw's weren't bad, she honestly wouldn't care if she was dancing with one all night. They were too smart, but that's not exactly a bad thing. They're honest, though not wimps (like a certain house, according to Pansy…) and they can be fun to converse with. She grimaced as she saw Padma Patil shout something over to her twin sister. So she wouldn't want to talk to her. But Pansy won't be talking to girls _anyway. _No, she was after the boys.

After Draco, Pansy had isolated herself from boys. Only talking to a select few, such as Theodore Nott, Blaise Zabini and Draco Malfoy. Theodore, because he was much too shy to make a move on her. And she was pretty sure he didn't like her like that, much to her chagrin. Theodore Nott was good boyfriend material. Blaise was better and she was closer to him, yes, but he was besotted with some guy. Yes, sadly, Blaise was homosexual. Such a gorgeous specimen of man and he isn't straight. Though, because of this, she was able to tell him anything.

Draco was well and truly over her, and she knew that, she she chatted with him now and then. He had mellowed considerably now the war wasn't looming over his head. Pansy didn't know the details of why he wasn't in Azkaban but didn't ask, it was a very _very _touchy subject for Slytherin's. She barely got away, only because of the fact she's seventeen. When Pansy graduates from Hogwarts though, she predicts some repercussions of her actions. For example , how would she get a job as an ex-death eater? What would _you_ expect from an ex-death eater?

Pansy shook her head and looked back at the Ravenclaw's. Anthony Goldstein wasn't a bad looker. He had a Spanish look about him. The corner of Pansy's mouth lifted slightly as he caught her eye and wavered slightly. Everyone was afraid of her, and how she gloried that in past days, she wants it stop now.

The Parkinson was snapped out of her reverie by a large spoon of mashed potato landing on her friends face. Blaise spluttered as he looked to the source.

Ronald Weasley sat at the Gryffindor table, his large form shaking with laughter while Hermione Granger glared at him. Pansy quirked an eye-brow, _that _was a new development. Granger was always pining over him, seems to be different though. Sure, she always glared at him at dinner for his eating manners, and reprimanded him for homework, but something had shifted between the two. Pansy's eyes widened as she saw Potter drape his arm around Granger.

Now _that _certainly was a new development. And the Weasley didn't seem to put off by it.

"I'm going to hit that Weasley straight in his big fat nose." Blaise announced as he levitated a ball of food.

Pansy rolled her eyes and stood.

She was not in the mood for another food fight.

"Wait! Pansy! Where are you going?" Tracey called "Come on" She barked at Daphne and Millicent as they all scampered after her.

* * *

She stared at her reflection in the mirror, like she had been doing the past ten minutes. You couldn't even recognise it was her, which in all honesty, she thought was a good thing.

"Pans , is that you!?"

Pansy went to answer , but found herself incapable "We're not allowed to give out names"

"Oh. So you don't know who I am?"

"No, your voice just sounds like mine."

"Oh….I see. How did they do that?!"

That had to be Daphne. No questions asked. Pansy rolled her eyes, partly put out that the girl couldn't really see it. "I don't know. Magic perhaps? Now let's go"

* * *

Pansy glanced around the Great Hall, it was decorated in orange and black. _Original,_ Pansy thought.

There were many small tables to the side of the large dance floor, the four house tables no longer there.

Pansy couldn't spot one person, not even Draco's platinum blonde hair, which she usually found in a heartbeat.

The noise was getting to her, the music pounding in her ears, dancer's shoes tapping on the dance floor as they laughed and enjoyed themselves, the conversations going on between people that could be from Gryffindor and Slytherin.

Pansy couldn't take it, how could people be so accepting?

She huffed and made her way to the balcony. At least disguised her sheep wouldn't follow her. The sky was a pitch black and the silver stars seemed to stare at her from their place above. The wind was blowing parts of her hair into her face; Pansy reached up and tucked a piece behind her ear.

Pansy jumped as someone slammed the balcony doors and stormed towards the railings.

"Stupid fricking ball. Who does he think he is?! And he goes anyway…the music should be lower, could be talking to anyone…even -"

"Are you okay there?" Pansy smirked, she couldn't help it, she was after all Slytherin. And this boy was funny.

"Um …I guess."

"Doesn't sound like it. You don't like this stupid ball either?"

He sighed in relief "Well at least _someone_ agrees. My best friends think it's a great idea. I think they're crazy" He leaned forward a little and whispered "I mean… we could be talking to _anyone_." He seemed to say it as if it were a deadly secret, that no one else had realised yet.

Pansy nodded "I know" she whispered mockingly

He drew back quickly "So you understand my problem?"

Pansy raised an eyebrow; he seemed like a stuck-up Slytherin. She could deal with this… "So, you're not a Gryffindor?"

"Why?" He asked suspiciously "I'm not a quivering Hufflepuff if that's what you want to know. And if you are, that is meant at no offence. I just know that Gryffindor's aren't too fond of Hufflepuff's. I haven't really got a problem with them.. But they were pretty cowardly at the Final Battle..and-" He noticed her wince

"Sorry, touchy subject"

"Seems to be for everyone in my house" he replied

Her eyes widened "You must be in my house then"

He smiled broadly "Well that's good then"

"So, colour of hair? I can't see out here really."

"Let's just not talk about appearances. Let us be someone else for a while. Because goodness knows I want to. Everyone is too much sometimes. I'm expected of so much. Especially by the fans…"

"Fans?"

"Oh yeah, I've a few fans here and there. Papers are a 'mare though. I mean, bloody hell, get your own life!"

Pansy groaned "The papers.. They make my life havoc at times. Like I would have an affair with Blaise Zabini…"

He tapped his finger against the railings to the song that was playing inside. The two could just barely hear it.

The boy and girl looked to the doors as they opened "Ger' in there. We didn' have this stupi' ball for nothin'"

The boy turned his back "Mr Filch, we're just staying out here a while" Pansy could almost hear him roll his eyes.

Mr Filch eyes the two suspiciously "Rhi' well.. No funny business!"

"Oh no, we'll just shag right here on the balcony"

Mr Filch looked like he was ready to shout with all his might , before he turned on his heel and walked briskly back inside.

Pansy chuckled "He's such a moan!"

The boy chuckled "It's fun to annoy him though"

"Yeah, he's very strict and will take any chance to punish a student"

"Someone needs to remove the stick from up his bum" the boy mumbled quietly

Pansy laughed out loud, it felt so good, and she had not done so in a while. Sure, she had a chuckle and giggle here and there, but to really and truly have a laugh. She felt it had been years.

"You have a nice laugh" he blurted out, rather pathetically

Pansy paused and looked at him…and burst out laughing again.

"Sorry.. I just…um…err…" the boy stuttered, thoroughly embarrassed

"It's okay, I'm not laughing _at _you, just your, from what I've seen , blunt nature"

"Oh"

"Yes. … So, you're not going to tell me what house you're from?"

"Nope"

"Fine. I won't tell you"

"Good" he replied "Bloody hell, it's cold…" the boy looked down at his feet as Pansy watched him, amused. "Well…I really don't dance… _really _don't. But you seem like a nice girl.. And I'd like to .. Maybe dance….with.. you" he confessed nervously

Pansy chuckled and offered her hand " Of course"

He swayed her slightly as his feet shuffled awkwardly. She laughed good naturedly as he stepped on her toes and blushed. He stopped swinging her around jokingly and looked into her eyes.

Time seemed to stop as she stared into his eyes, they were a most endearing shade of blue. A vibrant, bright blue. Electric. There were flecks of a brownish yellow in them. Her gaze flickered, as her eyes moved to his lips. They were a delicious shade of a reddish pink, they were not a bright pink, but more of a red. Perfectly shaped, perfect for kissing. If she just leaned forward…

He jumped suddenly "Ahem… I feel I know who you are… I just can't …"

"Figure it out" she finished

"After all , there's hardly any of our face hid. Our hair should be In full view and colour"

"No… everyone's is the same tonight. Same with voices. All that's left is our eyes and.."

"Lips" he finished, his gaze on hers.

Pansy nodded. "So.. Girlfriend?"

"Nope. But my family have this girl picked out.." He sighed

"Oh. Arranged marriage?" Pansy couldn't really care if he was arranged to be married, she would still want to kiss him.

"Oh no! They just…"

"Expect you to" she said softly

"Yes… how?"

"Yeah.. I know all about expectations" she was expected to marry a rich pureblood.

"Ah. You have them too"

"Yeah… it's expected of you to marry that girl. I will be married off as well. Probably someone my parents like more than me however.."

" Oh.. I like the girl. Just not in that way, if things turn out well ,she won't like me that well either"

"Brilliant. A way out" She grinned

He laughed, and she couldn't help but smile . His laugh was goofy , downright goofy.

He stopped and laughing and looked at her intently.

The boy leaned forward , so close she could count the freckles that were on his cheeks. He looked to her eyes for reassurance, and seemed to find it as he moved in. The two were nearly having the contact Pansy yearned so much from the stranger.

"TIME!!" A voice boomed throughout the balcony and Great Hall. The boy jumped back.

"I-is it over?"

Pansy nodded in affirmitive

"YOU KNOW HAVE PERMISSION TO TAKE OFF YOUR MASK ARE REVEAL YOURSELF. IT IS NOT COMPULSARY, THOUGH I TRUST A LOT OF YOU WILL" McGonagall's voice echoed through the castle.

The inhaled a deep breath and lifted his hands to his mask.

Pansy put her hand on his arm "Don't"

"What? Why?"

"I would prefer not to know. Maybe-" she paused "Tomorrow at breakfast…wear something outrageous. Do something so I know who you are"

"Like?"

Pansy racked her brains "Erm … I'll wear…"

He smiled and said " I'll wear a spew badge"

"Spew?"

"you'll know. It's an elf rights organisation"

She laughed "What a load of codswallop"

"I know , I don't know why she tries. Elves don't _want_ freedom."

"Why would they?"

He looked at her strangely and shook his head "What will you wear?"

Pansy grinned "A Potter Stinks badge"

He laughed out loud, very loud "Harry will love that. You still have it?!"

"No , but someone from my house _will"_

The boy looked a little uneasy at this. But shook his head when she sent him a reassuring smile.

"Well… goodnight. See you in the morning" He shifted from foot to foot.

"Yeah, goodnight." Pansy watched him turn around with an ounce (or perhaps a little more..) of sadness. She still wanted to kiss him, and she knew he did too. So why wouldn't he? On the other side, she couldn't wait to see him tomorrow! Draco was sure to have a Potter badge. And if he didn't, McNair would. He always kept things like that.

"Bloody hell. To hell with it" the boy cursed as he turned and grabbed her forcefully by the arms, pulling her towards him and crashing his lips to hers suddenly.

Pansy loosened herself from his grip and wrapped her arms around his neck.

She felt his tongue skim her lips and she opened her mouth without hesitance. His mouth was sweet, like chocolate.

He pulled away, a look of regret on his face as he firmly said "Until tomorrow"

Her hand lingered in his a minute longer and nodded "Until tomorrow"

Pansy trudged back through the Great Hall the other way. She raised an eyebrow as Draco Malfoy stormed off before her, Blaise laughing as he trailed along.

"I mean, I spent the whole night with a girl. And it could have been anyone but _her"_ he fumed as he tore up the staircase.

* * *

She took deep breaths as she fixed her badge on her uniform. When she walks through the doors , she'll finally find out who it was last night. She just hopes it wasn't as bad as Draco's.

She pushes the door open, careful not to draw attention as she was late. Slowly, she ambled over to the Slytherin table. Her eyes moved to each student sitting at the table of her house. Trying to spot a badge on anyone's uniform.

She sighed, none.

Sitting down, her eyes wandered across the house tables as they had done so many times. Starting with the Raveclaws, she prayed they were there.

But alas, no badge.

Pansy shut her eyes tight. Hufflepuff. But he had critisized them last night, had he not?

Ernie MacMillan? Thank goodness no.. Zacharias Smith? Nope. … Pansy's blue orbs searched the table frantically for the boy with the badge, but alas, none.

She felt her anger flare, she had talked to a Gryffindor all night? The one thing she wanted to avoid?!

She hoped it wasn't Longbottom… Or Potter.

Pansy gagged, Potter?

She looked at Longbottom, and sighed in relief. No badge. Thomas? No… Finnigan? No… Potter? Phew..

No.

No…

Pansy's eyes seemed to reach his the exact same time his did hers.

Both of their blue eyes flickered to the badges and back to the face.

Horrified, Pansy felt the colour drain from her face.

He nodded as a silent agreement was passed between the two, he would not speak of this.

Pansy blanched, she fancied Ronald Weasley?

The two would not contact each other, recognise that they had kissed last night, or even acknowledge the others presence again.

Because , honestly, it was what society expected of them.


	2. Marlene McKinnon

****

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**_Please read and review._**

Pride in the Fall

_(Marlene McKinnon)_

_by _

_Lady Altair_

Marlene McKinnon was not a creation meant to last through the night. She had made the dark her world and any morning that was to come was not meant for her. She turned away, into the dark, and made her own light.

She was carved out and emptied, with something new and frightening and corruptibly beautiful cut into her shell. It made her special, more vivid; she burned through the pristine-lined imperfections and made a grand and beautiful show to drive away the demons that prowled the dark. And she burned _bright_, a burgundy flame too proud to gutter and bow to the black night. Her synthetic shine came dearly, though, endurance traded off for intensity; she was not made to last. The morning frost would have crept in just before the weak autumn sun to rot her shell, delicate fingers of decay threading up through her until she spoiled and collapsed and was tossed away, another casualty of the long, dark night, too ugly and broken to lift her face to the long-absent sun.

They smashed her against the pavement instead, though, while her beautiful designs were still crisp-edged wounds and she still had the strength to stand against the night. Her edges were still sharp when they were broken and maybe it was a gift; they spared her the slow decay that would have inevitably come to her when her night had passed. Her compromised, rotting shell was good for nothing in the weak autumn sun; she would never burn so beautifully in the light. She was engineered for the night, broken and rebuilt to be light for it and never meant to see the day beyond.

She was a ruin, dead on the ground, but at least there was still some strength in the fragments, some pride in the fall.


	3. Bellatrix Lestrange

****

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**Dance**

_(__Bellatrix Lestrange)_

_by_

_Sera dy Relandrant _

Mist of evensong wreathed around tinsel-twined firs, turning even friend into foe. The chill fingers of the approaching night made girls' eyes sting and women's jewels sparkle more brightly. Only the children – and the house-elves trailing after them, to keep them from causing too much trouble – were brave enough to venture out of the warmed confines of Malfoy Manor and the enclosed arbors and gardens, and into the grounds proper.

There was a ball inside but what cared children, the bright, airy butterflies of tomorrow, of balls? There was food and warmth inside but when there was no amusement to be had inside, what mattered refreshments and the glow of firelight? Apple-bobbing, elf-dunking, pinning the tail on the pony… ah those were what really counted.

Light feet, shod in silk and pearl, pattered under the glitter of a thousand chandeliers inside, and bright eyes spoke as loudly as coy tongues as the young men and the girls, the lovely, lovely girls, danced. Outside, the children roamed wild.

_She_ is not a child, but not yet a young woman. Ten-year-old Bella Black disdains to romp with the brats – particularly that cocky little upstart, eight-year-old Lucius 'Lucy' Malfoy – and nobody's asked her to dance. She feels a little lonely because of it, lonely and embarrassed – _they think I'm too young to dance. Too little. _

Her grandmother's pearls, shell-pink, against the creamy whiteness – a relic of her Rosier ancestry – of her throat, and the fairy folds of her gossamer robes fail to impart even a shadow of childhood's sweet prettiness. Bella Black is beautiful, but not in the way her iris-frail mother had hoped to make her. She is as wild and feral as the wind whirling her sleek hair into crazy tangles, as the zig-zag bolt of lightening that makes the children scream. As the night.

A shadow of a man, tall and thin, unnaturally sober in his black hood and cloak (unnaturally in the surrounding gaiety of the ballroom), passes silently onto the balcony. He sees a little girl, only a little girl, tapping her fingers in time to the beat of the music on the stone ledge. And then she turns around and without even a shred of propriety demands in stentorian tones, "Who are _you_? Why did you come here? Who gave you permission to interrupt me?"

She can get away with it, she knows – her mother isn't near. Because of course this man, this shadow of a man indeed, is of course inferior to her. Naturally. After all, she _is_ a Black girl.

He realizes it too – realizes it from the contemptuous tilt of her patrician nose, the tone of her voice (so like Walburga's!) but most of all from her attitude. Her scorn. Her complete and utter disdain. And he smiles, smiles at this haughty woman-child with her wild black hair slapping her paper-pale face. "I only came," he says courteously, "Because I wished to find the fairest lady at the ball – and Miss Black, if I am not mistaken, that is you. Would you care to dance?"

Bella flushes and her eyes sparkle in eagerness. An answer, a yes – a yes, oh please – is on her lips but she remembers herself in time. "Why should I care to dance with a nobody like yourself?" she demands. "You forgot yourself in asking me."

"A thousand apologies, Miss Black," he says and barely refrains from chortles. "Rest assured, I never commit the same error twice."

* * *

He doesn't. Bellatrix's beauty waxes into an upsurge of bold charcoal strokes on cream-white satin, waxes for a time before it begins to wane. She learns to stop calling Lucius Lucy and she learns how to romp again with the brats – when they're all grown-up – at the Death Eaters' revels. Of course she never quite learns how to answer a proposal with anything akin to grace, but perhaps that's expecting too much of her.

All the same, whenever the Dark Lord dances – not a dance proper, not in a ballroom, but in the dueling fields he can be as graceful as any prima donna – he never chooses her as his partner.

She regrets that.


	4. Quirinus Quirrel

****

**_Anything you recognise belongs to JK Rowling. We are just having fun playing in her world._**

**_Please read and review._**

**Curtains**

_(Quirinus Quirrel)_

_by_

_Kore-of-Myth_

He rubbed his hands together, waiting for his master's signal. Even with his put on stutter, his false eye-twitch, there were some nasty habits of his that distracted greatly. His clammy hands were one of them.

Behind him, Quirrel could hear his lord mutter. He had been pleased, wonderfully pleased when his host had spoken up about his skill with Trolls – that mountain troll that was currently loose was all too easy to control, Quirrel had thought, making their plan easier to launch forward.

But then…it wasn't his plan was it? It was his lord's, and he was just the pawn, the host to his actions. The grim mood that was wrongly linked to Halloween made Quirrel think of himself as an executioner, while his lord was just the hand that had written the death warrant.

Quirrel would have scoffed at his own imagination if he let his emotions get away from him. He'd learned better than that, practiced better than that, been _tortured_ enough to know that he was just a servant to his master – a silent one, that was not to speak unless asked to.

It was a role that he had not originally wanted, but like any actor he took it with grace. Perhaps one day, once his master was corporeal again, and out of his body Quirrel would be given a stronger roll, perhaps a main part.

As a young child, Quirrel had been brought by his muggle-loving mother to the theater. And though in later years he denied it…he was thrilled by the acting on the stage, the magic without any physical substance. By a group of ten people, muggles all, Quirrel had been taken away to another land, another place. For a thrilling hour and a half he'd been taken away from his biased father, his rigid home life, and not been himself.

Ever since then, Quirrel had done the same for himself – perfecting his skills, learning his lines, memorizing the actions to be anyone, anywhere but the truth.

"Two minutes," came his lord's sibilant voice. "I can _feel_ it calling to me, just out of my reach now…"

Theater had been expensive though. His father disapproved of it, and had not given his mother much money for 'muggle-silliness'. But his mother had realized that Quirrel did have an attraction to the performing arts, like she once had, and she encouraged it in the way she could.

A muggle television was smuggled into the broom shed, a place his father would not venture either.

His father had been part of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and he was guaranteed to be off certain nights for certain periods. He and his mother had snuck into the broom shed, and curled up with him as they watched whatever played, speaking in hushed tones of what they would have done instead – how that one played the part too poorly, how that plot line was so obvious in the end.

Quirrel's mother had been the one thrilled when he became professor of Muggle Studies – she had whispered to him plans for bringing the concept of theater, of movies, of _acting_ and _performance_ to the Wizarding world. She couldn't wait for their reception, their reaction, for how _could _they not love the idea of theater the way she did? That was one of her wonderful traits, so hopeful for the things she loved to occur.

It was a pity really, that she had to be killed earlier that year. But as his lord ordered, his servant obeyed. Quirrel personally considered it more of a pity that his father had died earlier that year to spattergroit.

Quirrel found himself wondering whether his mother really knew, even as her death was before her, her son her own reaper, that acting _had_ been in the Wizarding world for centuries. Even now, all his plans – all his master's plans, he meant, were to come into place because of simple deception! As his master had done before him, he would do the same, bring the world to greater heights and fuller powers, all started by the simple thing of deceptive performances…

"Now," hissed his lord suddenly. "Now – go – it's time, now!"

A quote, a movie he had seen on a whim only a few years prior, with a mudblood girl whom he had never had the courage to speak to about his feelings came, to his mind as his fingers brushed the heavy doors. It had been Halloween then too, and the film's feeling had fit in with the Wizarding tradition – themes to scare even the eldest, but humor abound all about. Quirrel's lips betrayed his acting skills in a parody of a smirk, as the line fittingly slipped from his mouth.

"_It's Showtime_."

He slammed open the doors as the play began.


	5. Emmeline Vance

****

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**_Please read and review._**

**Balmy**

_(Emmeline Vance)_

_by_

_mustardgirl1128_

It was mild, for a Halloween night, the wind lazily picking up and replacing the leaves on the ground. She stood with her wand clutched tightly in her hand, a scarf round her neck.

"What the hell are you doing, Em? It's balmy today!" Caradoc would never understand.

"Fuck off, Dearborn…" she mumbled. She was in a bad mood tonight. "Has anyone seen Peter or Sirius?"

"No. You're going to have to patrol." Remus sounded weary, as he always did, and Caradoc nudged him.

"Cheer up, old chap!" he said happily. "It's balmy today!"

Remus Apparated away with no response, and Caradoc sighed. "He doesn't get it," he told her.

"I know. Neither do I." She was gone.

The last glimmers of daylight were fading from the sky as she paced in front of St. Mungo's, something inside her nervous. The fading lines of pale pink lipstick along the horizon slowly disappeared, and she sighed. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

She sent a Patronus to Caradoc. _Everything all right by you?_

_It's good on my end,_ was the response. _It's so balmy today!_

She rolled her eyes, wondering if he was kidding. It would be like him to kid when he, too, knew something was wrong. His fearless boar was somehow different tonight, uneasy and unhappy as it faded into the rapidly darkening twilight. She heaved a long sigh, chewing on her lip and jumping at any movement around her.

A Healer-in-Training left St. Mungo's, and she snapped around quickly. "Who are you?" she demanded.

"N-Nancy. You know me, Em," she said, nerves clearly acting up.

"What curse did I use on you in Seventh Year when you accused me of being friends with Lucius Malfoy?"

"Body-Bind. Then, you lectured me for almost an hour." She shivered at the memory. Emmeline's thin lips twitched slightly.

"Correct."

"What's wrong, Em?" Nancy asked.

She shrugged. "I'm just…uneasy tonight. It's nothing, of course."

Nancy knew this was a lie. When she felt uneasy, it meant something bad would happen—her feelings were as reliable as anything.

"I've got to go. 'Bye—happy Halloween!" Her voice tried to be cheery, but changed into a strange, thin whisper, like an old parchment being turned over. She cleared her throat and hurried away, her eyes flickering around her.

"Something is not right," she murmured to herself.

And a moment later, the unthinkable happened.

_What the hell are you talking about? _Her Patronus hurried away from her as tears gathered in eyes that never cried. She paced some more, the echoing of her footsteps like a haunting repetition of Caradoc's message: _Tragedy._

_Lily and James Potter were murdered tonight by You-Know-Who. The boy survives. More information coming later._

The night air froze around her as she read the message. She tightened the scarf, her limbs suddenly jelly about to be poured unceremoniously from the jar.

She could not pace a second longer. She collapsed in a heap. If a Death Eater were to come, she would be easy prey. She could not move an inch—only Caradoc's next message awoke her from the strange trance.

_You-Know-Who has been defeated by Harry Potter! Happiness reigns! By the way, the night is still balmy._

He was joking again. Caradoc did not know what was good for him. She Apparated, the tears still hidden behind her eyelashes. _Happiness does _not_ reign_.

She appeared in front of him, her eyes flashing with a mix of anger and unshed tears. "What the _fuck_ are you playing at?" she demanded. "What right do you have to _joke_ when Lily and James Potter, two of the nicest people you will _ever_ meet, have just _died_? Who _cares_ if the night is fucking balmy? You _bastard_!"

He stared at her, a smile frozen into his features with tear-tracks down his face. "Do you get angry when you're grieving? Because I joke when I'm grieving."

And he gathered her in a hug as they collapsed, sobbing together, the fate of their friends mixed in cruelly with some sense of strange triumph.

_Happy Halloween._


	6. Theodore Nott

****

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Hollow Smile

_(Theodore Nott)_

_by_

_Painted Inkblot_

It during Halloween that Theodore Nott's reputation as a clever Slytherin loner is always ripped to shreds. For him, Halloween has always been _scary._

The thought that's always prevailed is that this isn't the Muggle world, where all Halloween is is dress-up and candy and fake, cheap attempts at being spooky. This is the wizarding world, where there's that added aspect of magic—

(It is here in this train of thought that Theo tries not to imagine carved jack-o'-lanterns, with spiky grins and fiery eyes and their souls and insides taken out to make something hollow and empty walking after him, lurching and grasping, and spiky dark smiles open wide and gaping to bite out his insides and his soul too, while their creators are praised by how original and spooky they were with the carving and the faces.)

Theo always stays far, far away from jack-o-lanterns, especially the giant ones that Hagrid grows and uses to decorate the castle during Halloween; those are the ones that watch him the most, just _waiting_ for the right moment to pounce on him and rip out his soul with those poison-edged grins.

Sometimes Theo thinks that maybe that's how the costumes on Halloween originated, for would-be victims to disguise themselves in such terrible masks and guises, so that the jack-o'-lanterns would run away, their sharp jaws parted to scream and not to devour.

(And it is during this train of thought that Theo knows it backfired, that now the costumes are just as frightening as the soulless, hollow jack-o'-lanterns they intended to scare away. Because in the wizarding world, the five-year-old dressed as a vampire with cheap fake fangs can transform into a real vampire, those plastic fangs turned sharp and white and all too real, and if Theo is his escort, his thin neck will suddenly look so appealing...)

Theo does not dress up in costumes for Halloween. He does not want to walk under dark nights illuminated by a full moon and suddenly realize he is not Theodore Nott, but is twisting and screaming and howling and hairy and clawed and a _werewolf. _He does not want to see his friends and even people he hates writhing on the ground as their too-obviously-fake costumes bubble and steam and melt into their bodies, becoming part of _them,_ because now that Gryffindor is actually the Dark Lord Voldemort; that stupid Mudblood is now Darth Vader, who sounded much stupider when the Mudblood simply _described him;_ and now Tracy is a hag who's pouncing upon the first and second years with filthy fingers that have dirt under the sharpened claw-fingernails—and most of all, Theo does not want to be part of it, not knowing what's happening and just effortlessly becoming whatever he dressed up as and never knowing he was actually the Slytherin Theodore Nott.

Theo will not change into a creature that kills and claws and howls. Theo will not become soulless and empty because he was too slow for the spiky-smiled, maliciously cackling jack-o'-lanterns. Theo will stay Theo, who knows Halloween isn't something that's light and happy and cause for a feast, but something scary where nothing is definite and anything can change under the light of the much-too-big-and-bright full moon.

("What are you so scared about?" Blaise says, laughing, for Blaise is flamboyant and sees Halloween as an excuse for elaborate and colorful costumes.

Theo shudders and resists the urge to shout, "_Confringo_!" at the little pumpkin that soon won't be an innocent pumpkin that Blaise has on his bed.

Nobody understands. Halloween is _scary._)


	7. Fred Weasley

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**Money to Burn**

_(Fred Weasley_)

_by_

_McFlyFan101_

He grinned to himself as he packed the last box. He was always looking for an excuse to cause a little mischief, and that night he had the perfect one. Halloween: the day of all things spooky. It had always been his favourite holiday - it gave him the ideal reason to scare anyone who happened to cross his path. Ever since he was young he had looked forward eagerly to the day he could scare his brothers and sister and not get into trouble for it.

This year would be better than anything they had done before, because this year they had money. It had taken them weeks to complete, but now it was finished, it was better than anything he had seen.

Everyone who saw it would have to be impressed, or else have a heart of stone.

His brother popped his head around the door and grinned mischievously

"Ready Fred?"

Fred stood up with the same glint in his eye.

"Ready George!"

Between them they picked up all the boxes and Apparated to the nearby hill.

That night, the sky was filled with pumpkins, witches, bats and everything you can think of creepy.

As Fred let off the last firework the words 'Happy Halloween' glittered across the sky and a large golden 'W' shone proudly below it.


	8. Neville Longbottom

****

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**Mask**

_(An Ode to Neville Longbottom)_

_by _

_TrueQueenOfChaos_

When Neville Longbottom was very young, he hated Halloween. The night always seemed darker, the air always seemed colder, and nothing about the thirty first of October ever failed to remind him what a coward everyone thought he was.

Weak, pathetic Neville; too scared to pull on a costume, to scared to pull on a mask.

No one knew, of course, that his grandmother forbade him to trick or treat anyway, so he wouldn't have been able to go even if he'd wanted to.

"It's simply not _proper_ Neville." She lectured him. "Not for someone of your station. Besides, begging for candy? Why would you want to do that? We have perfectly good candy _here."_

A small part of Neville wants to argue with his grandmother, wants to ask why she had let his father go when he was young if it's so plebeian (he knows this word because he's heard it come out of his grandmothers mouth more times than he's heard her utter "I love you").

But he just shuts his mouth and slumps his shoulders and deals with it, because he doesn't _really_ want to go that bad anyhow (and also because he's a little bit afraid his grandmother would _look _at him in that way she does when she's thinking he's not as good as his father).

So he'll sit at home in his garden (and he knows how angry his grandmother would get if he got dirt on his pants, so he wears something old) and he listens to the children run from house to house; too far away to see but close enough to hear. He detects screams and laughs and all sorts of noises that could be mixes of the two, and he thinks for a moment it would be nice to have friends to trick or treat with, and maybe if he had somebody he wouldn't be so afraid all the time.

But of course that's impossible, because he's dumb and he's a coward and he knows that, because Uncle Algie said so, and he's too afraid of the dark and the dead to go outside on Halloween.

So he eats candy out of a bag (not a fancy Halloween one, with special charms on it to make it giggle when sugar is placed in it like stupid Draco Malfoy's, but the plastic one it all came in, a boring one, just like him).

So he sits there, and he eats, and he thinks about what he'd be doing right now if he was a little bit braver, and he convinces himself over and over and over again that the reason he isn't out there now is because Halloween is frightening, and not for the reason that he's afraid to go against his Gran, because if he admits that, even if it's just to himself, it means he really doesn't have anyone.

And that thought is a hundred times scarier than Halloween could ever hope to be.

So he tells himself he's afraid of the dark, the dead, and the dangerous, that being a coward is better than being alone, and that candy and tricks and running through the night laughing can't be half as much fun as it sounds like (because he can hear them, hear them laughing like he'll never get to).

And he always acts like he was supposed to act, especially around his grandmother.

It wasn't until he was older, old enough to understand that he _was_ brave and he _was _smart and he _wasn't_ any kind of coward, that he realized he'd worn a mask everyday of his life, without once having to sport a piece of plastic over his face, without once having to rely on Halloween.

And now that he's older, grown up with friends and a family of his own, he's not so afraid anymore


	9. Hugo Weasley

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**Stolen Halloween**

_(Hugo Weasley)_

_by_

_mackgirl_

Ron stood in front of Hugo and Hugo's friends outraged. His face had long ago passed the shade of red and was looking as if it was a strange shade of purple when he shouted, "Hugo! You… You don't do things like this… You're the good one!"

Hugo stood without speaking, the only sound coming from his red platform boot as he tapped it on the stone floor of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes Hogsmeade branch. On one side of him Dallas Wood was pushing his shoulder length straight brown hair back with one hand and straightening his posh dress with the other. Meanwhile, Hugo caught sight of Sam Thomas on his other side as he played with his some strands of his wild afro hair while trying to stay balanced in his high heeled shoes.

"Would you answer me!!" Ron shouted.

"What do you want me to say Dad?" Hugo responded.

Ron's anger flared up more, causing Harry to lean against the counter for support so he wouldn't end up on the floor next to George who had lost all control. "You could start by explaining why you are wearing England's flag wrapped around you!"

Hugo rolled his eyes, "It's not the flag Dad, it's a dress made to look like a flag. Dominique said she had a devil of a time finding this."

"Why are you in a dress to begin with?! And what do mean Dominique…she didn't help you with this did she?" Ron yelled getting more outraged by the minute.

"Of course Dominique helped us, you don't think we could have dressed as girls on our own do you? And we are dressed like this because Hogwarts is taking on the tradition of dressing in costumes for Halloween like the Muggles do… something about improving Muggle understanding." Hugo explained.

"I know that! Why a dress though, why not dress as Harry or Sirius Black like Freddie and James did? This isn't something you do Hugo, this is something those idiot cousins of yours do." Ron shouted.

"Hey!" James shouted from behind Ron as he looked up from examining his torn and dirty robes.

"We resent that!" Freddie added as he clutched the old fashioned Firebolt broomstick that Hugo assumed he had stolen from the school's broom shed.

"Mr. Weasley, we had to dress like this, this is how that old Muggle group my Mum listens to dresses." Eli Concord explained as he tightened one of his blond pig tails.

Ron's hand made contact with his forehead as he started to shake his head, "Why a girl group? Why not dress as The Bugs…"

"I think you mean The Beatles." Harry chuckled.

"Them too, why not a boy group?" Ron asked.

Hugo grinned, "Because if we had dressed as a boy group no one would had taken notice, but now people will remember us dressing like this and they will forget about what Freddie and James wore."

"He's got a point. We spent weeks planning this." James pointed out.

"And Hugo stole the attention from right underneath us." Freddie stated grinning then walked up to his cousin. "Congratulations mate, we never even thought about doing this. Let's go get a Butterbeer."

"You are not leaving dressed like that HUGO!" Ron shouted.

Hugo grinned as he waved good-bye to Ron before turning and heading out the door with James, Freddie and the rest of his friends.

"So what did Uncle Harry say when he saw you two?" Hugo asked.

James grinned, "Not much he was just getting to how inappropriate it was when you lot walked in. If Uncle George hadn't of fallen off the counter from laughing at you guys he might not have stopped lecturing us to laugh at you lot."

"I have to say though, I think Kenny here has it easier then you guys." Freddie commented.

"Why's that?" Hugo asked.

"He's the only one who gets to wear trainers and sweatpants." Freddie commented.

Hugo laughed as he flipped his long red hair over his shoulder. This had to be the best Halloween ever, no one managed to steal the attention away from James and Freddie without them realizing it but Hugo had managed to do so and he couldn't be happier.


	10. Petunia Dursley

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**Ghosts of My Present**

_(Petunia Dursley)_

_by _

_Sadie Lovegood_

"Mummy, I want to go as a wizard! A WIZARD!"

The word still chills my spine and paralyzes me. To hear my own son, my precious Diddykins, say it to me makes the pain so much worse, even though I know he means nothing by it. After all, how could he? He's four years old, for Pete's sake!

"Diddy-dunkins, why don't we see if we can find a lion costume for you? Don't you want to be a ferocious lion?"

"No! A WIZARD!"

He's going to throw a fit again, I just know it. At the tender age of four, he's mastered the art. Just like his Daddy, who still acts like four year old himself sometimes.

"Dudley, let's look at the other Halloween costumes first," Vernon suddenly calls out from the end of the aisle. He's keeping an eye on Harry, to make sure nothing….happens. He gives me a startled look.

"Uncle Vernon, can I go trick-or-treating too?" Harry asks. His voice is going to sound like HIS father's. I just know it. He's a dead ringer for that freak aside from his eyes, which are my sister's. Vernon scowls that all-too familiar scowl. I feel a smile curl the corner of my lips despite the negative outcome. Is it so wrong that I treasure my son more than my ward?

"You'll be sitting by the door and handing out candy to the kids, and if I see you eat even one piece, or pull any funny business, you'll be celebrating Christmas in your cupboard, understand?"

"Yes, Uncle Vernon," little Harry says sadly. Dudley yanks on my arm.

"I wanna be a WIZARD!" he yells. Two people further down the aisle look up at me, and I nod a silent apology.

The word 'wizard' haunts me like a ghost, especially this time of year. It's been three years since my sister and her husband, both of them freaks of nature, were blown up, landing my normal family with their freak son. The worst of it is that I'm obligated to keep him. The old man, Bumbledore or something, told me it was vital, and the consequences of giving him up were dire. So I had no choice.

But that doesn't mean we still can't be as normal as possible. Vernon and I are trying very hard to keep Diddykins away from his cousin's crazy world and all the mutants in it.

Hard to believe I ever wanted to be a part of it, really. All a bunch of nonsense. The fact that my perfect little sister got what she wanted just proved that life is a fairytale for the privileged few, and all the rest of us can do is conform to normality.

Do I feel guilty or sad over Lily's death? No. Not really. It makes me sound like a monster, I know, but my sister died to me the day she won my parent's love away from me. I was born first, I should have been the pride of the Evans of Spinner's End! Anyway, it's not like—

"—Petunia!"

I sigh to myself. Vernon's calling. Guess my spiteful thinking has to wait until later.

"Mummy, hurry UUUP!"

I'm getting ready to take Diddyduddys out trick-or-treating, and of course, I have to look neat doing it. It wouldn't do to look like a less-than-satisfactory housewife while escorting my precious son around.

I hate looking in mirrors more than I have to in order to get ready to go out. Horsefaced. I knew it all along. I am horsefaced. My sister was prettier. So much prettier than I. She got everything. The handsome man (freaky moron he was), the admirers, the affections of my parents. While she was fighting off suitors at that magic school, I was burying my nose in books and only dreaming about having a prom date. If it weren't for my old girlfriend Ellen introducing me to her cousin Vernon, I might still be a spinster at twenty-eight.

Then again, she also got herself blown up at twenty-one, her and her freak lover, and her kid got dumped on my doorstep. I'm still alive, along with my husband. That has to count for something…

"MUMMY!"

Oh, Dudley. Just like his father.

I can hear Vernon giving Harry the rundown downstairs about not eating a single scrap of the candy. Vernon himself will probably spend the evening in bed watching his shows with a soda in one hand and a remote in the other.

Makes me wonder what _THEY _do for fun tonight, if they do anything like we do. Do they go out and zap each other? Turn their enemies into toads? Do they dress up and eat sugar? Do they fly around on broomsticks and cause mischief?

Any of the above would be inconceivable here on Privet Drive.

As well as a thousand times more adventurous than escorting your son from house to house for three hours while he stocks up on fun-sized Mars bars.

Oh Lord, what am I thinking? What does it matter that they might have a more interesting way of celebrating Halloween? They're freaks. Nothing, no matter how exciting, is worth being a freak.

Sometimes I still wonder about what it was like for my sister, as much as it makes me cringe. I suppose it's some sort of curse she put on me. No, not a curse. I feel like every time I think about that world, it's Lily haunting me. She must be ghost somewhere punishing me for how things happened between us. Perhaps it's also for how we treat Harry. But I'm not about to send that boy off to a happy life, where better opportunities will be ready for him the minute he steps off that train. It's not fair for Dudley.

Maybe I am being haunted. Maybe Lily is sending the ghosts of my past to attempt to make me feel guilty for being so mean to her and her slimy little boyfriend all those years ago.

But it's not working. I'll make sure it won't.


	11. Victoire Weasley

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**The Scariest Halloween**

_(Victoire Weasley)_

_by_

_WishIWasJKR_

I absolutely hate Halloween. Not, like my friend Hazza, because it's too commercial, and definitely not because the feast always makes me so sleepy I can't complete my homework – that's Sammy's excuse.

No, I hate Halloween because of the favourite (by default) Metamorphmagus in my life - Ted Remus Lupin.

I know it's pretty weird to hate an otherwise fun-filled holiday because of the hottest guy in school – wait, what am I saying? Ignore that last bit; a witch always goes a bit crazy during her time of the month.

Now, where was I? Oh yeah…I have good reason for hating Halloween just because of Teddy. Because, on every October 31st, he takes it to be a second April Fools' Day, only this time around only under-age Veelas are allowed to fall victim to the pranks. Basically, I get quite spooked.

The tradition started when I was just four. We were over at Aunt GGGGinny's house for the feast when the doorbell rang. Seeing as all the adults were chattering too loudly in the kitchen, I went to the door and opened it to a monster that more than towered over me, boils covering its slimy green skin, saliva dripping out of its mouth, and very sharp claws, longer than Aunt Gabrielle's, reaching out to me. I screamed and wet my pants – hey, I was only four and barely potty trained.

But then Mrs Tonks popped out from behind the monster and picked me up.

"Aw, it's okay, Vicky, it's only Ted," she cooed, before shouting, "Ted, change back at once!"

But the monster charged into the house and made its way to the kitchen. Mrs Tonks swore the first dirty word I ever heard and ran after him with me in her arms, only to find a Stunned monster lying on the floor. Turns out Uncle Ron was a bit scared of the monster too, only he'd chosen to attack rather than wet his pants, naturally.

So that kicked off the tradition and, like all Weasley traditions (Ted is _practically_ a Weasley), it's been strictly adhered to ever since.

Which makes me wonder why I was born a Weasley? I mean, it's handy on April Fools', definitely, but what Mum ever saw in Dad remains a mystery to me. I mean, she's a Veela for crying out loud, and he's way too over-protective and annoying, at least of me. But then again, how could you not be over-protective of your Veela girlfriend? Maybe Mum liked him for what's inside. Deep, deep, deep, _deep_ inside, mind you. Something that, no matter what my cousin Roxy says, will never happen with me and Ted. Never. Why she would even think that remains a mystery to me.

Anyway, so when Ted got sent off to Hogwarts, I thought I could escape his childish tricks. Having the previous year gotten the fright of my life after being pushed into a lake which he'd told me had an invisible whirlpool that would suck me down in an instant, I was well and truly tired of it all. It is not a pleasant experience for any eight-year-old to float in ice-cold water, waiting for death to take you. Uncle Harry had a good shout at Ted for that one, the sucker. Said I could've gotten really sick.

But with a little help from Uncle George, Ted managed to get me again. I was all tucked up in bed, leaning my head back on my palms and enjoying the first scare-free Halloween in five years. And then I heard it.

"Victoire."

It was one of those ethereal calls and it was coming from my cupboard.

"Victoire Pax Weasley, age nine years, two months and three days, to die in three hours."

I screamed – but I didn't wet my pants, may I add.

"Cause of death," said the unearthly voice over my screams, "fright from an ingenious trick pulled by Teddy Lupin."

I cursed the word I had learnt exactly five years ago and opened my cupboard. It was a product from the Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes Spy Kit, a microphone and speaker. I heard Ted's laughter.

"You are so dead," I muttered, before turning both devices off.

So it was no wonder that I was a bit apprehensive as I got my Hogwarts letter. With me under the same roof as him and no overprotective parents, it was easy for Ted to take the jokes to the next level.

Mum and Dad (though mostly Dad) were fretting over me on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters until Ted wondered away from his gran and put an arm around me. Why doesn't my Veelaness affect him? I mean, not that I want him to like me or anything, but sometimes I wish he couldn't get so close to me. It makes _me_ feel uncomfortable, not the other way around.

"Don't worry about a thing, Bill. I'll take care of her," he insisted with that dazzling smile that seems to assure all the grown-ups _and _make every girl swoon.

Yeah, right. The pranks kept getting worse and worse – or, if you look at it from Ted's perspective, better and better – each year. You would think that with all the spooking going on I'd have gotten used to it all, but it seems I only get anxious as soon as Halloween celebrations kick off, jumping even at the sound of my own name. Ted has spooked me with Decoy Detonators carefully placed in my bag, trick telescopes that I used in Astronomy (though thanks to my Veelaness my black eye went away in a few minutes) and Wildfire Whizbangs set off centimetres behind me. When I was a third-year he even went so far as to cut one of his very important OWL classes so that he could levitate Werewolf Fang into the Hair-Raising Potion I was brewing to, naturally, make it explode right under my nose.

So I was greatly relieved when Ted informed me in my fifth year that he wouldn't be pulling a Halloween prank on me that year.

"I know just how much you love it Vix," he said in early October, causing me to roll my eyes, "but with NEWTs and all, I just don't have the time."

I skipped all the way down to dinner to tell Hazza and Sammy the news. They didn't take much notice though, seeing as Hazza was draped around Benny Johnson and Sammy was trying to memorise all the uses for Joberknoll parts.

But then something clicked in my brain – Ted was one of those super smart kids who didn't need to put much effort in to pass his classes. I mean, when he was in his OWL year, while everyone else was busy pouring over the textbooks in the weeks leading up to the fortnight of torture, he was just lazing about, thinking of more ways to spook me – not that I can read his mind or anything, but that's what the anxiety he has given me causes me to think. Needing to study, especially this far away from NEWTs, couldn't possibly be the reason Ted wasn't going to prank me.

"Ted doesn't have a reason for not spooking me," I whispered to Hazza in Charms.

"Yeah, he does, that whole study thing you told me about," she said, passing me a rat to test out our latest spell. At least she payed _some_ attention to me. "Honestly, such a nerd. I really don't know why you even like him."

"I do not!" I hissed, causing Professor Leigh to turn around and glare at us over his spectacles. That didn't stop Hazza though, seeing as she's had way too many detentions she's practically immune to them.

"You're always running to him for help," she muttered, "and you guys are always joking around."

"Maybe that's because we're practically related?" I couldn't help but offer, despite Leigh's eyes boring into us.

"Weasley, McKenzie!" he shouted. "You will stop talking in my class or else receive a detention!"

Kazza rolled her eyes but didn't talk any more. As much as she's immune to detentions, she'll never drag me down there with her. She claims it's because I need to have a clean record if I'm ever to go out with Perfect Ted, but I reckon it's just because she's a really good friend.

So what was Lupin's reason for not spooking me? I, who unfortunately am one of the people who know him best, couldn't think of one reason in the world that would stop him from gaining happiness from the suffering he inflicted on me. Which could only mean one thing: Ted _was_ going to spook me; he just thought I was stupid and that he could put me off the scent.

Yeah, just lie to me Ted, after years of a dishonest, distrust-filled relationship.

Well, actually, Ted and I are pretty open with each other. It's probably because we're family and we know we absolutely can't judge each other or else the whole Weasley family will be brought down.

So on Saturday the 31st of October, I was ready. I clasped my wand in my hand as soon as I got up, not even letting go of it to have a shower. That was, I now realise, pretty stupid of me, seeing as Teddy can't come up to the dorms anyway.

Hazza and Sammy groggily raised their eyebrows at me when they slouched in and saw me brushing my teeth while holding my wand.

"Ted," I explained after spitting.

They rolled their eyes and went into the shower. Not like they understand, though. They don't even have _brothers_.

I was suspiciously looking around the whole morning but I didn't spot Ted once. _Maybe he really is studying_? I thought, until I spotted him out the window playing Quidditch with some of his mates. I relaxed for a bit after that.

But after nothing scary even happened by dinner time, I was getting quite worried. Don't tell me Ted had a personality transplant without me knowing?

So after dinner I dragged him along to a spare classroom.

"What the hell is going on?" I asked.

"I don't know what you mean, Vix," he said, feigning innocence as he perched on the desk. He was going for the natural look today, with light brown hair, warm chocolate eyes, easy smile…he looked hot.

Argh! I swear Teddy Lupin messed around with my brain for Halloween.

No, no he didn't, because he did something much worse, which I will reveal to you in due course.

"Why aren't you spooking me or exploding something in my face or _something_?" I asked, almost whined.

"'Cause," he shrugged, standing up. "I guess I've grown fonder of you this year and am willing to empathise with your dislike of pranks."

It took me a little while to figure that out – why did Ted have to be so smart and know all these big words and speak like someone with so much wisdom at random times of the day?

But the thing is, I fell for it. Like the stupid person that I am, I fell for it. And I did what I guess Ted knew I would, for he is as close to me as I am to him, and therefore his Halloween trick worked.

I walked over to Ted and looked deep into his eyes. They seemed so earnest though, those pools of chocolate. Looking back at that moment, I didn't know Ted took acting classes.

I leaned forward and, as a way of saying 'thanks for your sudden transformation from annoying hetro to sympathetic gay guy' (meaning no offence to gay men, but they are always so nice and understanding), I kissed him. On the lips.

Yes, I am the biggest idiot. However, let me just say it was not for romantic purposes.

But I never intended to hold my lips to his for as long as I did – that was Teddy's fault. His lips were so soft and, if I'm not mistaken, he was holding me to him and kissing me back.

Now, Teddy isn't the kind of guy who'll kiss any girl, which is why this came as the surprise of the century, but I eventually pulled away from him and, without bothering to check the colour of his eyes or the bright shade in his hair, I bolted from the room.

But a thought that scared the living daylights of me crept into my mind.

That was the best kiss of my life. Okay, that's not saying much seeing as every guy who's ever kissed me has tried, much to my disgust, to front me in the hope I'd be too distracted by their spectacular kissing skills to notice. Apart from my ex-boyfriend Sean, but he kissed like an eel anyway, which is why we had more of an emotional rather than physical relationship. The point is, Ted's kiss actually left me wanting more.

Ted _had_ lied to me. He had known that was how I would react, because he knows me better than anyone. He'd known I was going to kiss him. He'd known that I would later think that was way better than any kiss I've ever received. Of course, when I told Sammy and Hazza and Roxy this, they didn't believe my little theory, seeing as _I_ was the one who started kissing _him_, but that's not the point. It was Ted's fault.

Yes, Ted _had_ played one of his little Halloween tricks on me, no matter what any one says, and it'd frightened me more than any of his previous ones.


	12. Hannah Abbott

**_Anything you recognise belongs to JK Rowling. We are just having fun playing in her world._**

**_Please read and review._**

**Collapse**

_(Hannah Abbott)_

_by_

_Emily Mae_

The Leaky Cauldron was empty except for the barmaid who was wiping down the counter with a white rag, her loose blonde bun falling apart over her shoulder. It had been a long night. Halloween was always busy, and it didn't help that the 31st fell on a Friday this year. Three hours ago the tiny pub had been packed to the gills with celebrating patrons, but now the floor was littered with spilled pumpkin juice and fire whiskey, abandoned sweet wrappers, smashed glasses and other debris that resulted from the evening's festivities. Though it had been hectic, Hannah had enjoyed visiting with many of the other Diagon Alley shop owners, as well as several of her old schoolmates. But there was one face in particular that Hannah was sad not to have seen, and though she wasn't surprised – she knew how much of an event the Halloween Feast at Hogwarts was – she couldn't help but feel a little disappointed. She tried not to think about it too much and continued scrubbing the bar, wiping a stray wisp of hair off her cheek as she went.

Once the counter was adequately clean, Hannah decided to tackle the floor. With a wave of her wand every chair in the pub flew neatly to rest upside down on top of its respective table. Another wave caused all the garbage to vanish from the floor, and a third swish sent a scouring spell over the old wooden floorboards. Ever unsure about the efficacy of her spellwork, Hannah decided to go over the floor one more time with a mop just in case she had missed anything. She _was_ tired, but she wanted to be sure that the job was done well and besides, she had never been one to shy away from a little extra work. She grabbed the mop and pail that were leaning in a corner behind the bar, and caught her reflection in the mirror above the liquor shelves as she did so.

Her cheeks were still as round and pink as they had been when she was eleven, but the rest of her face had matured appropriately. There were grey bags under her eyes, but those had been there for years. It had been eight years since her mother died, but Hannah still had a hard time sleeping. She'd been doing much better as of late, though, and she knew who was responsible for this change. She sighed at her weary reflection and turned to finish her work.

As soon as the floor was satisfactorily clean, Hannah began replacing drink glasses that had been drying in the sink to their shelves. She was barely half done with this chore when the she heard a tinkling bell and a wooden creak at the front of the pub. Hannah jumped at the sound and nearly dropped the glass she was holding. She usually made a habit of locking the front door behind the last patrons of the evening, but it had been so busy tonight that she must have forgotten. She turned around, sighing again.

"I'm sorry, but we closed over half an – oh!" Hannah smiled. "Hi…"

Neville stood in the doorway wearing a traveling cloak and looking just as careworn as Hannah did. There was a smear of soot on the side of his face, but he was smiling too. He walked over to the bar and sat down in a stool across from Hannah.

"How was your night?" he asked, shedding his cloak and laying it on the stool beside him.

"Good," she said simply, nodding. "Long, but good. Would you like a drink?"

"Nah, I'm okay," said Neville. "Busy night, then?"

"Goodness, yes," Hannah went on. "We had so many customers! It was fun, everyone was in such high spirits. And you should've seen the fireworks display George and Ron did from the roof of their shop. It was really something…exploding jack-o-lanterns and skeletons made of smoke, and there were some that shot up like rockets but turned into live bats when they burst! Those were the ones I was able to see, anyway. We were already really packed by then…"

Neville listened intently as Hannah spoke. Most people thought she was a rather shy girl, but that was only because there were very few people in her life that she felt comfortable opening up to. Her mother had been one of them, and her father, too, eventually, but none of her other friends had been able to listen to her the way Neville did. Consequently she had a tendency to talk his ear off whenever they were reunited.

"Ron and George came over after they closed shop, and George's wife was here with the babies, but they didn't stay long. Ernie stopped by for a while and it was nice to see him even though he was prattling on and on about some very important letter he got from the Canadian Minister for Magic or _something_. You know how he gets. I had to kick out Fraser Cupric (he owns the cauldron shop) when he started teaching all our jack-o-lanterns to swear. And…oh! You'll never guess who else. Harry came in with Ginny, but they had Kingsley Shacklebolt with them and they introduced me. He was very nice. I gave him a free drink."

Hannah paused here because Neville was smirking at her.

"What?" she asked, looking genuinely perplexed.

"Nothing," he said, shaking his head and smiling. "Go on."

"What else…?" Hannah pondered. "Susan was here for a while with her mum this afternoon. Did you know that Susan and Owen Cauldwell are _engaged_? I can't even think of who else was here all day. I feel like the whole of wizarding Britain stopped in. Anyway," she became hesitant. "Were you planning on – I mean, are you going back to Hogwarts tonight?"

"I think I can stay for a while," Neville answered.

"I was hoping you'd say that," replied Hannah. "If you want you can go ahead upstairs and I'll meet you there in a few minutes. I just want to finish with these glasses."

"Can't they wait?" asked Neville, kindly removing the cup and rag from Hannah's grasp and setting them aside on the counter. "You look dead tired."

"I suppose you're right. I _am _pretty sleepy. Oh, hold still a moment, though, there's some dirt on your cheek. How'd that get there?" Hannah questioned as she cleaned the side of Neville's face with her thumb. "Didn't you bother washing up before you left?" she jested.

"I was sort of in a hurry to see you," Neville answered sheepishly. "And anyway, it's a rather long story involving the Levett brothers, some floo powder, and a Fanged Geranium."

"I see," Hannah said, chuckling. "Well you can tell me all about it in the morning, but right now I'm ready to collapse."

"I'm with you," Neville said, standing up and grabbing his cloak as Hannah stepped out from behind the bar.

They walked towards the staircase together, and upon reaching it Hannah turned and flicked her wand once more, extinguishing the few candles that were still lit, casting the pub into darkness.


	13. Peter Pettigrew

**_Anything you recognise belongs to JK Rowling. We are just having fun playing in her world._**

**_Please read and review._**

**Masks**

_(Peter Pettigrew)  
_

_by_

_Cuban Sombrero Gal_

Peter Pettigrew hates Halloween.

It's the jack o' lanterns, the masks, the flickering candles that hide behind the hollowed-out eyes of the suits of armour and _Peter-that-pumpkin-it's-watching-you, run! _He scurries down the corridors with his shoulders bent and his eyes on the cracks in the pavement, Sirius' laughter ringing in his ears.

The Marauders, they call it paranoia and plan an elaborate scheme to hypnotise him into believing something else. Five detentions and a slime-covered dormitory later, Peter's still shuddering from his irrational fear.

--

He twitches and wriggles and finds a way to leave early from every Halloween feast, the fear in his eyes mirrored by the shining plates and the suits of armour and, _Peter, you're being watched again. _

James and Sirius and Remus and Lily, they laugh and laugh, their giggles tangling up until all Peter hears is one giant roar. They slap their thighs and bounce up and down; _they don't mean it Peter, _he tells himself, _they-don't-mean-it. _

Whether they do or not, after that year, he hates Halloween even more.

--

Black cats in the alley near his flat aside, the worst thing about his luck: the Marauders _love _Halloween. The month of October becomes a montage of making costumes (a heavily pregnant Lily bitches like crazy about how sewing is slow even _with _magic) and buying lollies and carving jack o' lanterns. If they notice Peter shaking and stuttering as he sees _those eyes _they don't say anything, just line them all up and ask him for a final opinion.

He never actually gives them one, because his mouth opens and shuts wildly and _oh the pain in his ribs _and as soon as he sees the candles flickering in the cavernous hollow of the pumpkins' eyes, he _really _can't breathe.

Once again, they laugh. Peter can taste their breaths in the air as he gulps in mouthful and mouthful. It burns his throat, and he tiptoes past the jack o' lanterns without making another sound.

What hurts the most is that they still wear masks on Halloween and chuckle like this is all a big joke.

--

He supposes that's what inspires him to owl Lucius Malfoy.

_I know, _he writes, _I know where the Potters will be this Halloween. _

--

Only, it's not _this_ Halloween, but the next, and with those words, Peter falls into a state of hazy disrepair.

That night, he's running from something much more bloodcurdling than the jack o' lanterns that haunt him. He's running from the friends he grew to love like family, from his choices, from the mask of deceit he's worn etched into his skin for all these years. The mask is like a leaden weight, the pain bearing down on him as some ironic punishment for his sins.

Peter spins around, the street lights blinding him, and:

_They're-still-watching-you._

Lily and James are dead, and their faces are scarier than any mask ever was.


	14. Rose Weasley

**_Anything you recognise belongs to JK Rowling. We are just having fun playing in her world._**

**_Please read and review._**

**Orange Day**

_(Rose Weasley)_

_by_

_hondagirl_

When Rose Weasley is three years old, she decides to wear orange.

Only orange.

The first day of her decision, a Monday, finds her wearing an orange blouse underneath an orange jumper, complete with orange and white striped tights. On Tuesday she wears an orange pinafore dress embroidered with tiny white flowers, her normally disarrayed hair contained into two tame pigtails, with soft orange ribbons tied at each end. Wednesday morning she comes downstairs wearing a pair of orange shorts with an orange t-shirt and a large floppy orange hat sitting astride her head –her grandmother's old forgotten gardening hat- the large brim falling into her small face and overshadowing her eyes; causing her to run into almost everything in her path. But Rose enjoys the hat immensely and wanders around with it the whole day, never once taking it off.

Rose does not have that many orange clothes -much to her disappointment- and Thursday finds her in one of her dad's old Chudley Cannons shirts, the logo faded and worn with time and multiple washings. Rose isn't too happy with the shirt, it is far too large for her small frame; the long sleeves reach down past her elbows and the bottom of the shirt almost touches the floor.

"Muuummyy!"

"In here Rosie!"

Following the voice, Rose wanders into the kitchen, her bare feet scuffling softly on the floor as she spots her mum sitting at the table, baby Hugo asleep on her lap. Rose walks over, the long shirt dragging listlessly on the floor behind her as she climbs onto the chair next to her mum.

"My clothes dirty."

Her mum looks down at her and Rose is shocked. Her mom looks so old. She has lots of lines around her eyes, like the lines that Grandma Molly has. But Grandma Molly was allowed to have lines, she was _old. _Mummy wasn't old. Mummy was pretty and she always smelled good, especially when she let Rose sit in her lap as she read stories to her. Mummy always read stories to Rose. Lots and lots of stories. Her dad told her once that Mummy liked to read. But Rose hadn't heard a story from her in awhile, not since baby Hugo was born. Daddy read her stories now and though Daddy was a good storyteller –he always made funny faces that made Rose laugh- he didn't tell stories half as good as Mummy did.

Scrunching up her nose, Rose peers over at baby Hugo, surprised to see he wasn't crying. Hugo was always crying. He cried a lot. When Rose asked her dad why Hugo cried so much –Lily was a baby too but _she _didn't cry _half _as much as Hugo did- he told her that Hugo had something called 'caw-lic', and that made him cry. Daddy also said that Hugo would stop crying soon but that hadn't happened yet. He still cried. Big, _loud_ tears that made Daddy look worried and made Mummy look tired and made Rose put her hands over her ears and wish he would stop.

"You have lots of clothes Rosebud," her mother says softly as she shifts sleeping Hugo from her lap to her shoulder. "Lots of pretty, pretty clothes."

Rose shook her head solemnly and responded quietly, she had learned fast that you make no noise when Hugo sleeps, no noise at all. "Not orange."

Her mother sighs, "You only want to wear just orange clothes? What about pink? Or blue? You've always liked the color blue."

Rose looks at her mum. It is true that blue is her favorite color; it is so pretty and soft and kind. But orange is wild and orange is fierce. And Rose feels orange.

"I like blue," she responds, "But today Orange Day."

Her mother sighs once again but doesn't say anything else. And when Rose wakes up the next morning she finds her orange clothes, all neat and clean, folded nicely in her drawers.

The next few weeks pass by quickly but Rose still wears only orange. She can hear her parents talking about her ("_She's just going through a faze. It's what children do. She'll snap out of it soon")_, but she doesn't mind. She likes orange. She likes the way she feels when she wears it.

"You orange blob! You a big orange blobby blob!" James taunts at her from across the Potter garden one afternoon. Rose merely scowls at him. Rose has been spending a lot of time at the Potter house lately, and at Grandma and Grandpa Granger, and Uncle George's, and Uncle Bill's and Grandma and Grandpa Weasley. Baby Hugo is _still _crying and even though her dad put up _lots _of Silencing Charms in her room, Rose can still hear him. Rose asked her mum why they couldn't give Hugo back; he doesn't do anything except cry, but her mum said it doesn't work that way. She says that one day Hugo will stop crying and then he and Rose can play together. Rose doesn't think that will ever happen.

By the end of September, all the grownups have gotten used to the fact that Rose wears only orange clothes. Her dad buys her a bunch of orange Chudley Cannons clothes to wear– jumpers, t-shirt's, jackets, hats, socks with the team's name embroidered on it (_"You'll spoil her Ron…")_. Her mum was a bit better; she buys Rose a few more outfits, all in various shades of orange. Grandma Granger gives Rose a new hat to wear, which is smaller then the other and doesn't get caught in her eyes. Grandma Molly knits her an orange sweater with a large 'R' on the front, even though it isn't her birthday or Christmas (_"It's okay dearie. Hugo will stop crying soon.")_. Aunt Fleur takes her shopping one day –along with Victoire and Dominique- and Rose gets hair ribbons, headbands, scrunchies, and clips, all of them orange. And Uncle George grinns sheepishly one day when he Floos over, an orange Pygmy Puff in his hands _("Aw George, you old softie…")._

But Hugo still cries. And Mummy and Daddy look more tired and more tired. And a little bit of Rose, a tiny part of her, a little itty _bitty_ part, -the part she never shows anyone- wishes he had never been born. Then Mummy wouldn't cry and Daddy wouldn't worry. And then she feels bad because she knows he's her brother and she's _supposed_ to love him, but it's far easier to love baby Lily who always laughs and smiles. But Rose doesn't say anything and instead continues to wear orange.

Orange makes her feels powerful. Orange makes her feel invincible. Cries are nothing against orange.

* * *

Then one day Hugo stops crying. Just like that.

It's a few days before Hallowe'en and Rose is helping Daddy hang decorations up around the house –no spiders though, Daddy _hates_ spiders– when Mummy bursts into the room and rushes towards Daddy.

"Ron! Ron! What time is it?"

Rose watches her dad as he looks at the clock, "Er...its half past seven luv. Why, is Hugo cryi…." His voice trails off and he looks at Mummy. After a second a large smile starts to spread out across his face, "He's not crying. It's after seven and he's _not _crying!"

And Rose is suddenly swept up in the celebration as Mummy cries once again –but this time these are happy tears, _exhausted _tears (exhausted is a big word but Rose knows what it means. Teddy told her. And Teddy knows everything) -and Daddy hugs both of them tightly, his long arms steadying Mummy as she continues to sob.

And later that night -when Rose is in bed- she holds her breath and counts to ten slowly, praying, wishing, _hoping _that Hugo continues to sleep. She doesn't want to hear any crying tonight.

* * *

It's been three days. And not once has Hugo cried. Well, he still cries, but they are little cries, not those loud, angry, ear-hurting cries he used to do. And Mummy is smiling again and Daddy is laughing. And Rose is excited because today is Hallowe'en and Daddy promised her he'd take her trick o' treating with Albus and James.

Rose searches through her clothes, looking for the perfect outfit to wear today. She searches through layers and layers of orange clothes, happy that her mum and dad let her dress herself. For she is a big girl and big girls don't need help. Hugo needs help but that because he's a _baby_.

Finally, Rose spots what she's looking for and throws it on, not noticing that the blouse is on backwards and that the socks don't match. Running downstairs, she finds her parents in the kitchen. "I all ready to go trick o' treat", she announces loudly.

Her mum and dad look up at her from the table in surprise. Her mum begins to smile and her dad starts to laugh, "What are you wearing Rosebud?"

Rose looks down at her outfit, confused. "My 'alloween costume."

Mummy gets up from the table and walks over to Rose, kneeling down in front of her. She starts adjusting her socks. "But Halloween isn't until tonight sweetheart. And I thought you were going to wear that costume we picked up for you. The orange pumpkin. You love that costume. So why are you calling this your costume?"

Rose looks down at her outfit once again, a bright pink jumper with dark pink socks and a pale pink shirt on underneath. She smiles at her mum; sometimes grownups ask the _silliest _questions. "Because Mummy," she responds patiently as her mother start to fiddle with her hair, "It Pink Day."


	15. Rowena Ravenclaw

__

**_Anything you recognise belongs to JK Rowling. We are just having fun playing in her world._**

**_Please read and review._**

A/N Yeah, I know. Somewhat long for a one shot… but the characters would not shut up. A longer piece will be posted in a chaptered story.

**Oidhche Shamhna**

_(Rowena Ravenclaw)_

_By_

_First Year_

Rowena leaned forward, placing her hands in the mud at the edge of the pond and looked into the girl's face that reflected back to her. Glancing furtively over her shoulder least she be caught in this wanton act of disobedience to the gods, and seeing no one, she quickly lowered her head back down and examined the girl in the pond again.

She saw her mother's eyes on the face and bringing up her hand, she used one muddy finger to touch her eyebrow and trace its line. She dropped her hand back down into the mud and leaned closer to her watery mirror, turning her head to the side and looking out of the corner of her eye,. She was sure she saw her father's chin, and perhaps her grandmother's nose. Her light red hair, braided and held in plaits that twisted around her head had not been difficult to imagine, as she saw this same hair and fashion on every female of her clan.

Sighing and sitting back on her heels she again looked around to make sure she was not seen, and untying her belt, she lifted the heavy fabric of her robe over her head. She then stepped into the pond, walking away for the shore until the water was almost to her chin. Cupping water in her hands, she smoothed it over her face before bending her knees and sinking down until she was under water. Pushing off from the mucky bottom, she swam leisurely back to the shore, enjoying the bit of freedom this simple act gave.

As she waked back out of the pond, tugged the brown course material over her head, and retied her woven belt, she tilted her chin up to the sun and thanked the god of the pond for the refreshment she had taken and promised to offer her thanks at least three times more before the sunset.

She knew she was late for her lessons. She hurried up the path, her body wet and cool, under her robes, knowing Elbragh would be angry if she had kept him waiting too long. She hoped that his wife needed help this morning to keep him occupied. Quickly she whispered the blessing to the god of the pond three times more knowing that if her sins kept coming she would not find the time later.

"Rowena." Elbragh stood at the top of the earthen mound with his hands on his hips.

'Shite,' she thought to her self.

"Twice this moon I have waited for you, and both times you come to me with wet hair." He sternly shook his finger in her face.

"Teacher," she said, smiling. "The end of summer grows near. I shan't long be able to enjoy the pond."

"What of your studies?" he asked her angrily. "Your test is in this moon, and then the solstice is on us."

"I know all the sun prayers." She pouted, crossing her arms over her chest. "I have recited all three hundred sixty five of them. I know how to use the Healing stones, and to cast my Fylgie in mirrors, and all of our family back to Odin. Should I keep going Teacher?"

"What of the runes," he said, trying to be angry, but was not quite able to make his voice sound hard looking at her. "Or are you destined to sweep the floors and tend a hearth?"

"No, Teacher," she said softly. "I know all the runes, and even the Roman markings."

"Today we will go over the rituals again." He turned to walk up the earthen path towards the low-slung sod roof. Ducking down he entered the long enclosure and sat at the wooden table that took up the middle of the central room. Rowena entered behind him, picking up a sprig of wintergreen from the bowl just inside the door, and tossing the fragrant bundle into the fire she offered up a small prayer to the dwellings god.

"Teacher?" she asked. "The other clans, the ones to the south, they use their magic all the time, they do not hide, or restrict it to only the learned."

"Yes and the Slytherin clan will soon interbreed themselves to a weak small tribe if they allow no other clan to marry into theirs." He spat on the ground. "And the Huffle clan subscribes to complete seid. Do you want to live like that? Do you want to live in a place that only women can use magic at the hearth? A place where magic is only used at home and the men run off to battle?"

"No, it just does not seem fair that we don't use it between Oidhche Shamhna and Solstice," she sighed.

"Is it too much to ask you to show penitence of two moons to honour the Gods?" He opened a large scroll that lay on the table.

"It will make it harder this year to go all the way to the circle, and then to return using no magic." She took her seat opposite him. "It will make the journey seem much longer."

"Child, the test only comes with the full moon cycle, once every nineteen years." He rose to get a stick from the fire, and light the candle on the table. "You are lucky to be of age or you would have to wait a full nineteen years before you had another chance. Now, explain the ritual of warrior induction."

Rowena began reciting in the singsong rhymes that made the long ceremonies possible to memorize with out referring to the runes. She could easily fall into the rhythm of the words while her mind went elsewhere, often she was able to take in whole conversations as her mouth spilled out the words she no longer thought of.

"Fine," Elbragh said smiling when she had finished. "You should do well." Then he stood and put more wintergreen and cow wheat in the fire signalling the end of lesson.

"Run along now, there will be no more lessons." Elbragh gave her a rare smile. "We leave in three days. The journey will take four, the test three with the last day on _Oidhche Shamhna_."

Rowena jumped up and ran to the door, then remembering her manners turned back and bowed to her Teacher with a wide smile. Seeing him nod to the door, she laughed and ducked under the low doorway and ran down the earthen path, her bare feet making soft slapping sounds as she went. She had just enough time to catch Erwin on his way home from the fields.

She saw him coming across the field. His long strides making him stand out from his younger brother. Erwin was the oldest of Morgan's boys. His grandmother came from the Claw clan, the same as her mother and she always felt at home and comfortable with him and his ways.

She slowed to make it appear she just happened by, and Élan seeing her, grinned and suddenly remembered he had forgot his cap by the stream and went back to fetch it, leaving Erwin and Rowena alone.

"Rowena," Erwin said falling in step beside her on the path. "You have no lessons today?"

"I am done," she said, looking at him with a wide smile. "I leave soon for my test, and then I will take students. When I am older, the Elder said I would be the Teacher of the Lesser Teachers. I am done Erwin, I have finished, finally."

"Finally?" he laughed at her. "Finally? At your age? You are the youngest we have ever had. I heard it said at the market. They say at seventeen years if you pass the test you will be the youngest ever."

"I will get paid for each student I have," she said shyly, avoiding the compliment he had given her. "And as an elder I will get my own land, with a dwelling already built."

"I am aware of that Rowena." He scowled down at her. "We will talk of this later, now is not the time."

"When will it be time?" She stopped walking. "You said when we could …"

"Rowena." He took her arm and forced her to face him. "I will speak to your father before we discuss this." Then cupping her face in his hands, he gently kissed her, and hearing her gasp, he pulled her into him, crushing his lips to hers.

He pulled back enough to see her face, then sighed and stepped back. "I am sorry Rowena," he said, running the pad of his thumb over her lips. "I have to talk to Morgan and your father first."

She nodded, and taking his arm, they started back down the road toward the hamlet in which they lived.

"When will your father be back from the war?" Erwin reached for her hand. "I am tired of waiting, I thought perhaps we could ask the Old Ones on Oidhche Shamhna, and marry on the solstice."

"I will be at the testing, and celebrate Oidhche Shamhna there." She wrinkled her brow as she looked at him, as he had known this of the past year.

"I will speak to Henger tomorrow." He promised, looking down her body. "You don't have to be here to ask the Gods. Go to your test, and when you get back we will make preparations for the binding."

"We will bind on the Solstice?" She was already nodding her head at him happily.

"Fine." He ran his hand though his hair in frustration, and wanting to hold her again. "We best get out or here then, before I change my mind and have you in a patch of weeds."

Henger was to return the day before, and as the female of the home the task of welcoming him had fallen to Rowena. Once again, she had prepared his homecoming feast. She could not well remember her mother who had died of fever when she was small, but still she set the table for three out of respect for her soul that still lived in her home. She set nuts out on the stones in front of the fire to roast, when she heard his heavy boots outside.

"Father," she said bowing as he came in, seeing him bending his head low to duck under the support beam of the door. Behind him another came, with a grand cloak and silver clasps.

"This is Vorimer," her father spoke quickly to her. "He will be your guest for tonight."

"Yes Henger," she said turning back to the fire. It was rude to look at a stranger, and ruder still of her father not to have told her of a guest. She pulled the joint out of the fire, placed it on a wooden board and carried it to the table, returning to the hearth to retrieve the mushrooms and parsnips, as well as the roasted nuts. The men talked quietly, too quietly for Rowena to find comfort in her father's return.

"Girl," Henger called her. "Bring a glass for my friend."

Rowena nodded and stood up taking one of the treasured elf designed crystal goblets from the table by the outer wall, and carried it across to the two men. Holding it up, her father filled it with wine, and then commanded her to drink.

Rowena looked up at him confused, and looked over at his guest who wore a smirk on his face.

"Drink with your husband girl," he said, throwing his head back with a laugh.

"That's right little one," Vorimer smiled, as he looked her over not caring that she seemed to lose all colour. "Although my first wife may not have much need of you, I promise I will use you well."

"Father," she gasped turning to Henger, "Erwin is to speak for me."

"He is a fool, a poor fool," Henger said sharply. "I have but one child, you will do as you are told."

"What of my test, the teaching?" Rowena desperately thought of what to do, feeling the chasm under her grow larger.

"This is your husband." Henger reached out and grabbed her elbow, then pushed her into Vorigern's lap. "Serve him, pour him fresh wine, and then take him to bed."

She struggled to get up as Vorimer held her tight and as still as he could. As she continued to struggle, he pushed her on the floor, knocking the goblet on the hard earthen floor and watched as the crystal shattered into pieces of glass as small as flecks of sand.

"The Gods, the blessings, you can't do this." She crawled to her father and laid her forehead on his boot. "Father I have been obedient, I have done everything you have asked."

"Your gods are gone girl," he spat at her. "A new god is coming who will send your truths away. I have already taken possession of your bride's price and signed the papers."

"Henger, leave us now," Vorimer said, leering at the girl. "I have business to complete, and it proves to be a long night."

.

.

By morning's light Vorimer finally fell asleep, leaving Rowena huddled on the floor near a reclining bench. She waited until she heard his even breathing, and then grabbing her robe, and slipping it over her head to cover her nakedness she silently crawled to the entrance and fled into the grey light. Her feet pounded on the ground as she ran out of the Hamlet with no idea where to go, and no one to turn to. She ran until she was at the pond, and letting go of her tears she waded into the water to scrub off his scent, and the blood on her thighs.

She sat in the mud, not caring about her robes, now muddied and soiled, and cried into her hands. Her world had ended, her dreams destroyed. Even if she managed to get away, she would have nothing. She heard a rustle of leaves and in a panic turned only to see Erwin walking towards her through the brush.

"I thought you would be here," he said squatting down next to her. "What is going on, Henger came looking for you this morning."

She pulled away and turned her head, not able to meet his eyes. Her long upbraided hair formed a curtain around her face, and falling below her waist made her look almost wild and feral.

"Rowena?" he said impatiently. "Why would he think you would come to me in the middle of the night?"

"Erwin, leave," she whispered, trying not to cry, "If he finds you here, I don't know what he will do."

"Henger will not…."

"No, not my father," she said sharply, cutting him off. "My husband."

Erwin reached out, grabbed her chin roughly, and pulled her face to his. He saw her swollen lips and tear streaked face, he saw the marks on her neck and closed his own eyes to block out the sight. Standing up he took a step back from her, his mouth opened but he could not form the right words to say.

"Erwin?" She scrabbled up to face him. "I had no choice, he forced me."

"I know." He turned from her, and ran his hand thru his hair. "I know, Rowena."

"What should I do?" She began to separate her hair in to sections to braid, only to give up as her hands continued to shake.

Erwin paced along the shore of the pond once stopping to look at her, and then he began pacing again. He fought to control his temper, to still his hands and to keep his mouth closed. Within only a few minutes, his life had cashed down to his feet. He did not know how to pick it up.

"How much do you want this?" He walked over to her frowning. "I mean us, how much do you want to be with me? Because witch, I will give up everything for you. However, if we run there is no looking back, we give this up forever."

"Erwin?" She made his name a question.

"We will first go south," he said decisively. "You will have your test. We will ask the Gods for their grace, we will ask them to forgive what we must do."

He smiled at her and grabbed her hands, pulling up from the ground. "And if they bless us, we go where no one knows us. We start over. You teach, and I will take care of the fields and herds, and we will be part of the new world that is coming."

"You would do this for me?" She glanced quickly over her shoulder.

"No, I do this for me." He tipped up her chin, and kissed her softly. "Did he hurt you?"

"Erwin, please." She fisted his robes, and buried her face on his chest. "He did things, things …things that hurt."

"Shush," he whispered. "That is behind you, it is done. You will never feel that kind of pain again. I will never hurt you."

"Now." He stepped back from her. "We will tell your teacher that we will be there for the test, and maybe he will stand for us on Oidhche Shamhna."

She nodded and took his hand as they began their journey. Once she set her foot on the path to the test, she would not eat. The further the clan from the circle, the harder it became for the contestants to make the journey with no food. The failure rate was much higher for the clans that lived so far, making it difficult for the distant clans to have teachers. Rowena had practiced fasting, Elbragh had insisted on it. She knew she was able to go almost seven days. However, the exertion of the journey would only add to her hunger. She said her fasting payer now, as she took Erwin's hand and set out on the path.

She heard Erwin call her name, and looked up to see him waving her forward, smiling widely and pointing to a valley that was below him, and not yet visible to her. Grabbing her walking partner's hand, she pulled her along as they ran up the slope.

"On the valley floor ahead of them were dozens of tents, all in different colours and each flying a banner with their clan's symbol. The cloaked figures numbered far more then Rowena had ever seen. What astounded her however, was the circle of stones that stood in the middle of the tents. She had never seen a complete circle, her own clan's circle was only a memory of what it had been, and not nearly as large as this one.

Looking at Erwin, he again pointed to the right, and atop the next rise. There stood the testing centre. The centre, constructed of logs erected in a circle, mimicked the size of the sacred stones. Inside the circle were planks of wood set atop smaller logs, used as tables. The circle looked austere and solemn.

"This is where we leave you." Erwin looked at her tenderly. "The testing starts today and ends on Oidhche Shamhna they all say. I do not want to see you until then."

Rowena nodded as he walked off, knowing the humiliation of banishment would make it impossible for her to complete the test, and could result in cruel punishment for Erwin. Even though he had done no more then hold her as she slept, she was another man's wife.

She also knew that elimination before Oidhche Shamhna would be unbearable. The clan had talked of the one unnamed that had not returned to the clan when he had failed on the first day. To make it through the second was to pass. If she made it as far as the Oidhche Shamhna celebration her clans, standing would raise. Rowena had no doubt that Elbragh had prepared her well enough to finish.

"Who asks to be admitted?" A cold voice spoke from under a drawn down black hood.

"I, Rowena of the Clan of Raven, descended from Odihinn of the North, and his son…," Rowena began her lineage, the first of the tests she was to take. It took her a full forty-two minutes to recite her lineage from both her father and her mother's side. Once done she put out her hand, palm up and waited to be accepted.

The wizard in the black hood walked to the centre of the wooden circle, and picking up a small glowing ember, returned to place it in her hand. The ember did not burn her flesh, as it had not burnt his, attesting to the truth in her words.

"Enter Rowena of Raven." He stepped aside allowing her to pass as he went on to the next student who waited. Helga stepped up and became the next to enter. Placing the ember in a cooper bowl, she took up a hand bull of elderberry leaves and covered the still glowing cinder, closed her eyes and waved the smoke of the smouldering leaves towards her face.

Rowena then walked to the first table, which had a calendar laid out in the pattern for crops. A different wizard, also with his cloak pulled low, pointed to different days and waited for the prayer for her to give the payer of the day's god. Rowena did not hesitate as the songs came forth clearly, and loudly. She recited twenty-two prayers before he handed her three small chips of blue stone and moved on to the next table.

The stone, used for the healing rituals, and incantations whispered while casting the stone could cure many diseases, and the passing of ones hands over a body could show what she needed. On the table were small pieces of things she could also use, phoenix feathers, a small vial of unicorn blood, a sliver of dragon heartstring, and a length of Centaur muscle.

She left the stones on the table when she had completed her test, and she moved on to the table of mirrors. Positioning one mirror to align with the fading sun, Rowena paused, knowing that it was too late in the day to capture the amount of light she needed. Raising her hand she cast a small orb of light and positioned it to the east, readjusting the arc of her self-made moon, she placed the second mirror to capture its light. Then looking hard at the flickering reflections on the table she spoke of the future.

She knew she was finished with the test when a hand took hers and squeezed it. Looking up she saw the dark cloak of the test giver pulled back and an old face leaned into her own. Seeing the sky now full black she realized much time had passed.

"Your trance was deep," he whispered, "and disconcerting. Have you talked to the men of Rome?"

"Rome?" she questioned. "No, Teacher, it is forbidden."

"Why did you cast into the moon phase?" He pushed back his hood. "You were taught to toss to the sun. Were you not?"

"Yes Teacher," she said, looking down at the mirrors and feeling she had failed. "I needed more light."

"Why did you not merely enhance its light?" He continued to look at her closely.

"It is the end of the cycle." She bit her lip, knowing she had failed. "The moon should be at the brightest it has been for many centuries. I just thought to capture it."

"Go then." He stepped back and raised his hood. "We begin in the morning."

Rowena ran from the testing circle, letting out her breath and trying to remain calm. 'In the morning' he had said. She had passed for one more day.

The next day was long and gruelling. The wizard handed Rowena a scroll and told her to read aloud. She looked at the cloaked figure oddly. This was the history of her clan. She did not need to look at the runes to recite this story. Sighing she lowered her head to the parchment and began.

As she finished the first scroll, another and yet another were put before her. Each scroll going back to a previous time. The third and the fourth scroll were unfamiliar to her, and she read with delight at the new information. The man laid out a fifth scroll with great care, and two other cloaked men came over to the table.

"Take your time," she heard Elbragh's gentle voice and smiled at his presence.

The runes were more ancient then were the goatskin on which they appeared. She had heard that scrolls like this existed, and had dreamed of one day seeing one. Now, here before her was one older then her very clan. This must have come down from the North eons ago. This was the book what bound all clans together, one that was full of prophesy and promise.

Waving her hand to cast a glowing orb to shed more light on the ancient scroll, she began reading in her soft voice not noticing the hush that had come to the test centre as every one stopped to listen. This scroll was not part of the test for Teacher. This scroll, only offered to those who had completed the first part flawlessly, would give her the right to be an Elder.

After the first test, of transfiguration, six were left, and after potions, only four. The four new friends looked at each other and nodded their greetings, as once again they approached the tables. Each looked down at the same set of numbers, and then the same set of runes, potions and stones. They computed the crops cycles, the phases of the sun, and the full moon.

Rowena concentrated as she felt her head spin from lack of food and looking around the circle saw that only she and Salazar remained. Smiling at him, she returned to her work and completed the full nineteen-year moon cycle, which would place the full moon over Orion's left shoulder in only fourteen months from now.

Looking up at the cloaked wizard before her, she frowned and looked back at the table.

"Your premise is wrong," she said hesitantly. "This is three days off. You must have had someone else copy the problem."

"And, why would three days matter?" he asked slowly.

She looked up at him, worrying her lip and wanting to tell him to go three days more with out food if he needed to know what three days could do.

"Three days now would multiply to twenty seven in the next cycle. That would throw off the solstice, the corps, and the tides would…," she paused. "The prophesy sir. It is the prophesy from yesterday, about the three days that would change our world. This is the computation of the last three days that you have given me."

"Yes Elder." He smiled at her. "You are correct."

Rowena stepped back from the table shocked at the news that they now knew the day. The exact time that would destroy what she held close. The title bestowed on her went unheard as she spun around looking for Salazar at the table behind her. She saw only the cloaked testers watching her as her ran from the circle to find Erwin.

She ran from fire to fire, searching and calling his name. He was the only other one from her clan so the waving banners above the tents meant nothing to her. Hearing her name, she spun around and saw him walking toward her with Elbragh by his side.

She hurried to him only to have him stop her with his hand raised and palm out. He shook his head, and looked around quickly.

"Rowena, we must be careful." He scowled at her. "You are not yet released."

Rowena felt her face redden as she ducked her head down, turned to Elbragh, and began the story of what she had just learned.

Yes," Elbragh said to her quietly after hearing her out. "When you cast your Fylgie into the mirror it was revealed that the error in date was intentional. This test was written years before your clan moved to this island. The error has been found before many times, with no understanding of why, until now."

"What will happen?" she questioned.

"I am no longer your teacher Rowena," he smiled sadly at her. "I am afraid we all must decide for our selves. We will take this information home and see what is decided."

"Erwin, I must speak to him," she looked around Elbragh's fire again. "Where is he, I need to see him."

"No," he grabbed her shoulders and gave her a small shake. "Stay away from him until I speak to the gods for you."

"You know?" she whispered, she eyes filling with tears.

"He had to tell me if you want me to stand in the circle for you," he said smiling. "I can not say I approve of what you do. However, I cannot see you wasted on a hearth in the home such as that one. He is known for his cruelty."

"I would rather die then be with him," she said honestly.

"Now go." All he could do was nod at her. "Enjoy this time as the time of your test will always be in your memory."

Oidhche Shamhna had begun.

The four newest elders stepped into the inner circle walking to the middle, and then turning their backs to each other, the faced the four directions and offered up the opening prayer. Around the circle, fourteen fires burned, as tradition required, only now Rowena knew the reason. Fourteen was the number of moons they had, and fourteen was the number of clans that would survive. . This was the last Oidhche Shamhna celebrated in this circle that was ancient when her ancestors had come to this island. Her world would now end, as had the world of the original builders.

She raised her arms to the dark sky and invited the Old Ones to return. She offered them savoury meats, and roasted nuts, sweet cakes, and mead. She chanted the prayer of the dead, and asked them to share their knowledge of the after life and begged them to keep the evil away. She prayed that the last harvest on her clans land would be fruitful, and asked that their world survive, and above all, she prayed for wisdom.

One at a time new mothers brought up the babies born during the year and holding them up to the stars the four new elders introduced them to the gods, and spoke their names aloud for the first time. Rowena smiled when occasionally she would feel magic flow into the baby's soul. She knew that although the baby held mixed blood, the god's have accepted it.

When the moon reached the highest point, the bones of the dead were bought forward and as the babies were introduced, the dead were told goodbye. The clans elder would take the bones into one of the many earthen mounds and lay them next to members that had come before.

Elbragh did enter the circle for them on their first Oidhche Shamhna without a clan. He stood alone in the cluster of stones and raised his arms to the sky, and offered payers to the old Gods of Odin and to Odhinn before him. He asked for their grace, to release Rowena from her bindings, to allow Erwin to walk with her, and to pledge their lives together.

As the bonfires raged, and burning embers rose to the sky, he closed his eyes and saw what was to come, and heard the Gods caution. He cast an orb of light from the palm of his hand, sent it to the stars thereby accepting the terms set out, and with a sad sigh, lowered his arms.

He turned to leave the circle to see Rowena and Erwin standing together watching him. Fires burned and tables laden with food crowed the space between the tents set up to hold the sleeping children. Flute and harps, and deep toned drums beat out ancient tunes, all unheard, and unseen by the couple that he sought.

He walked to them, as others took their turn in the circle, and taking up Rowena's arm, he led them away from the festivities and her friends.

"Teacher," Elbragh said, the first to use her new title. "I am proud of you."

"Elbragh, what of the Gods, what did they say to you?" She stepped closer to Erwin.

"Child, you and Erwin have their blessings to make your journey and find a new home together." He did not want to complete the information.

"Elbragh," Rowena hissed. "Tell me all of it."

"Child." He shook his head and turned to Erwin. "You can marry in one of the many Roman villages."

"Elbragh," Erwin said gruffly. "Tell me what it is old man. I am loosing all patience with you."

"The binding will hold." Elbragh reached and rested his hand on Rowena's shoulder. "A child will be born, a female child. She will break your heart, Rowena. And in many centuries her line that comes from Vortigern thru you, and your husband, his descendent Vortimer, will join with the Slytherin clan that came from the Moorish people of the south, and will again rip your world apart."

Rowena gasped, and Erwin hearing the words reached for her and pulled her close. He placed his hand on her stomach and looked closely at her.

"It changes nothing, do you hear?" He grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him. "She will be born at my hearth, you will suckle her, I will take her to the naming, and she will be mine."

"That is many years away, and Rowena you know not all predictions come true," Elbragh said lightly and then turned and waved to the festival behind them. "Now let's eat, and drink our fill."

"Is that all you saw?" Rowena said, for the first time not trusting the old man. Erwin put an arm protectively around Rowena's shoulder, fearing to hear more.

"I am an old man that has never been further from home then this," he sighed, shaking his head. "I have never entered a Roman village, and would not live in a home of stone and brick. I would be afraid it would fall around my ears." He laughed at the thought and then grew quiet as he put his words together.

"Rowena," he said softly. "Our world is fast disappearing. We have spoken of this before. You live at a time of great adventure, and will do great things. If I had your wit I would join you."

"Where should we go Teacher?" she asked, knowing he would say no more.

"I have always liked the cool air that comes from the north." Elbragh raised his eyebrow as his blue eyes twinkled at them. "Now enjoy _**Oidhche Shamhna**_, and then go and find your new students."

* * *

_1. The autumn festival is pre-Christian __Celtic__ in origin, and is known in __Scottish Gaelic__ as Oidhche Shamhna the "End of Summer". _

_2. Go to Wikipeda and look up Rowena for the references to Vorimer and his son Vortimer _

_I have always found the similarity in names just too good to pass up. _

_3. Fylgie the part of the total person, not quite a soul, not quite a guardian angel, gave insight and divination. _


	16. Lily Evans

_**Anything you recognise belongs to JK Rowling. We are just having fun playing in her world.**_

**_Please read and review._**

**The Witch's Hat**

_(Lily Evans)_

_by_

_Deluxe Sugar Quills_

"Sev!" the ten-year-old exclaimed as she opened the door. She turned to let her friend in while he stood staring at her.

"Lily, what are you wearing?" he asked. The redhead giggled and twirled, showing off her hat to him.

"Oh, Mum's just fixing up my Halloween costume," she said. "I forgot to take the hat off. Do you like it?" The hat in question was a tall pointed witch's hat, complete with a spider web and spider resting on the brim.

"Well, it's nice, but what's it for?" Sev asked. Lily giggled again.

"For Halloween! When we go trick-or-treating." She paused. "You know… when we go and get candy from people in the neighborhood!" Sev shook his head, unsure of what to say.

"We have to go!" Lily said, excited. "I'm being a witch 'cause since I'm going to Hogwarts next year, I'd be a real witch there, and this is like a warm-up. Mum thought it'd be cute." She grinned, continuing. "Even Tuney's going, though she said last year she wouldn't do it again 'cause she's all _grown up_ and stuff…"

"But I don't have a costume," Sev replied shyly.

"Let's go and see if Mum can get you something, then. She has tons of stuff upstairs!" Lily said, grabbing his hand and pulling him up the stairs.

--

Lily slipped in the seat next to him, smiling as she did so. After giving him a kiss on the cheek, she began to pile food onto her plate.

"Hey, Lily," James said through a mouthful of food. She looked at him sternly, and he swallowed, smiling at her.

"_What_ in the _world_ are you _wearing_?" Sirius asked from across the table, his fork hovering halfway between his plate and his mouth.

"Thanks for being so _positive_ about it, Sirius," Lily said, rolling her eyes. "It happens to be a hat I wore for Halloween years ago. My Mum sent it over."

"_I _think it looks lovely on you," James said, pulling one arm around her waist.

"We know you do, Prongs," Remus replied, causing everyone to laugh (except for James, who was too busy glaring at Remus.)

After a moment of relative silence, Lily felt like there was someone watching her. As she looked across the Great Hall she saw Severus looking at her. She met his gaze for a second before they both averted their eyes. It was, after all, the same hat she had worn when she was ten and they had gone trick-or-treating together. She remembered how Severus had said it was the best Halloween he had ever had. He must have been thinking about it too.

"You okay?" James whispered in her ear. She nodded and smiled, unaware that she had stopped doing so.

"The house elves outdid themselves again," Lily said, breaking the tension that was threatening to rise. "This must be the best Halloween feast yet, and we've had seven of them!"

--

Lily smiled as she listened to the giggles of one-year-old Harry and to the animal noises James was making as the two played together. She looked surprised for a moment as she picked up the worn hat, but then grinned.

As she walked past the brilliant sunset that was shining through the hallway window, she called, "Hey James, guess what I found!"

--

He approached the house, barring himself against any protective barrier there may have been. There wasn't one, which surprised him. Still, he knew he shouldn't stay long.

The man entered the house, his dark eyes avoiding the spot on the floor. The home was quaint, but it didn't matter to him. Instead, he listened. He could hear the faint echo of her laughter, of her saying his name.

There was a crunch beneath his foot. He looked down to see a hat – the same hat from so long, long ago. He froze, suddenly hearing footsteps approach him. He turned and disappeared, taking the hat with him by mistake.

The hat from all those years ago.

A final reminder of her.


	17. Scorpius Malfoy

****

**_Anything you recognise belongs to JK Rowling. We are just having fun playing in her world._**

**_Please read and review._**

Tale of the Pumpkin Thief

_(Scorpius Malfoy)_

_by _

_Kerichi_

No one stole from Scorpius Malfoy unless he allowed it. He didn't leave boxes of sweets in the common room and extra writing quills on his desk on accident. He did it on purpose. Although he didn't much care for sweets, he was fond of his grandmother, who sent them in the mistaken belief that he was just like his father. The quills kept his dormmate Nott—who broke into Scorpius' desk twice during first-year to "borrow" a quill and triggered security wards—from a third stay in the hospital wing. The goodwill of housemates and evasion of detention were added benefits.

Seven weeks into Scorpius' fifth year at Hogwarts, the house-elf Slinky sent a note relating a different kind of theft: one not planned.

Scorpius turned the note into a parchment bat and sent it winging across the dorm room. "Edgar, catch."

Edgar Goyle glanced up from the Quidditch Illustrated racing broom edition he was poring over. His broad face remained inscrutable as the bat swooped around his head. "A Hallowe'en decoration. Nice."

"It's a note."

Edgar grabbed the bat. His lips moved as he silently sounded out the words.

At their desks, Nathaniel Nott and Guy Willoughby gave up pretending to revise. They sniggered.

"Want me to read it to you, Goyle?" Nathaniel asked.

Scorpius answered, "Want to wobble to dinner on jelly-legs?"

"Not particularly." Nathaniel promptly buried his nose in the book he'd been reading.

Scorpius looked at Edgar and jerked his head toward the door.

Once they exited the Slytherin common room, Scorpius said, "Mouthing words? What's next, dragging your knuckles on the ground when you walk?"

"Too obvious." Edgar dropped the hulking posture he assumed around others and stood tall.

Scorpius frowned. Usually, his friend's crony act was amusing. Today, it irritated. He said, "Doesn't it get old pretending you're not smart? Aren't you tired of being treated like you're—"

"My father? No. I prefer to be underestimated."

So did Scorpius, as a rule.

Edgar said, "It's the thief, isn't it? You think he's laughing at you."

Scorpius refused to admit the possibility touched a nerve. He quickened his stride.

When they neared the kitchens, Edgar tickled the pear in the painting of a bowl of fruit to gain entrance. Within, house-elves clustered around long tables, readying for dinner. Scorpius skirted the edges of the room to reach a side door.

An elf stood guard. His triangular face was doleful. "Slinky has failed in his duty to Slytherin House." He opened the door. "Six is gone."

Scorpius looked from the cellar lined with mounds of pumpkins to the elf who slumped in dejection. "Is it possible you miscounted?"

"No, young sir."

"Beg pardon," Scorpius said with every ounce of sincerity he could muster. Slinky wasn't his personal house-elf, he served Slytherin House of his own volition. If he became offended and chose to stop being helpful, the consequences would be dire: mainly for Scorpius. To distract himself from the vision of running through corridors dodging hexes, he said, "Theories, anyone?"

"The thief signed up for the House carving competition," Edgar said. "He heard you bought a load of pumpkins for Slytherins to practice on and decided to nick a few to do the same."

Slinky nodded. "He is sneaking them out each night when I is busy."

Scorpius noticed the way Slinky's eyes flickered toward the nearest preparation table. Had a girlfriend, did he? Scorpius said, "I'll stand watch tonight and deal with the thief." He looked at Edgar.

"Can't. I have a tutoring session."

"In what?"

"Astronomy, with Marianne Willoughby."

"Guy's sister? She's a seventh-year."

"She's pretty."

Scorpius said, "Right. Well, when I catch the thief, I'll let you two know—if you're not too _busy_."

On the return to Slytherin House, Scorpius said, "I could be busy if I wanted to. I'm not a troll. Girls like the way I look. They don't think my hair's too long." He scowled, remembering the way his father had tried to talk him into cutting his hair at the ears instead of shoulder length. "I simply choose not to be."

"Short haired?"

"Busy." It wasn't that he didn't like girls or snogging, either; it was the other nonsense Scorpius could do without. Girls who acted thrilled to be alone on Hogsmeade Weekend afterwards expected him to join their group of friends and pretend interest in meaningless chatter. The boredom wasn't worth the convenience of a regular snogging partner.

Scorpius spent the dinner hour mentally tallying a list of suspects. Most were Gryffindors.

"A Galleon it's James Potter," Edgar said in a low voice.

"The Head Boy a thief?" Scorpius smirked. "Not likely."

"They say absolute power corrupts absolutely."

"Who's _they_? Hufflepuffs? My bet's on Fred Weasley. Double or nothing."

"Done."

Three hours later, Scorpius gave up trying to count the pumpkins in the torch-lit cellar. He'd lost track six times in the last hour. Bored, he sat on the small patch of unobstructed floor and waved his hand in front of his face. Disillusionment Charms didn't give true invisibility. Movement created an interesting blurring effect. After a few more waves, he lost interest and stared at the door. What had dotty old Trelawney said about creative visualisation? Something about changing the outer world through thought, imagining an event in the present tense.

"I see the door handle turn," he muttered. "I hear the click of metal. I smell kitchen herbs when the door opens, I feel . . . like a bloody idiot."

The door handle turned with a click.

Scorpius froze in disbelief. Could it be that something Trelawney taught wasn't complete rubbish? He sniffed the air and relaxed. No smell of herbs: the thief's arrival was coincidence.

His jaw dropped when Rose Weasley stepped into the cellar.

Miss Perfect Prefect, must get the highest marks, always correcting others was a thief? Her design for the Gryffindor pumpkin must be amazingly intricate if she needed practice badly enough to steal. Scorpius decided to follow her and size up the competition.

She marched briskly to a corridor off the Entrance Hall, never once looking over her shoulder. Such bold obliviousness would mark her as a Gryffindor even if she wasn't wearing a scarlet dressing gown.

So would her hair. Darker than the infamous Weasley ginger, the reddish brown colour proclaimed her one of the many Potter/Weasley spawn infesting Hogwarts. Until now, Scorpius had purposely treated the clan as beneath his notice. He ignored them, and for the most part found himself ignored in return. In the interest of maintaining the truce, he would deal with Rose personally.

He trailed along as she brought the pumpkin into an unused classroom and placed it on a table.

"Seven is a lucky number, a number of completion," she said, drawing a pattern in the air with her wand. "_Incidere profundus!"_

A rectangular-shaped cut appeared on the pumpkin.

Scorpius used a counter charm to become visible. "If you want to practice carving, you really should scrape the insides first."

For a moment, he thought Rose would faint. Her face lost all colour.

"This isn't what it looks like," she said.

Scorpius almost laughed. "What, you're not stealing the pumpkins, you're borrowing them permanently?"

Her cheeks flushed. "I can explain."

"I'm listening."

Rose took a deep breath. "It's the contest," she said in rush. "I have a pattern that would transfer brilliantly onto one of Hagrid's pumpkins, but my cousin James doesn't want to use it. He thinks Uncle Harry's idea would win."

"Would it?"

"No, but if I don't show what my idea will look like the team will choose his." She lifted her chin. "I only took a few pumpkins."

"That makes stealing all right?"

"Of course it doesn't," Rose said. "But there are mitigating circumstances."

Spoken like the daughter of a witch who dealt in magical law. Scorpius raised an eyebrow. "Plan on telling that to Headmaster Slughorn?"

"If you force me to."

Her eyes asked a question he refused to answer directly. He wasn't a Gryffindor, after all. "So you need a demonstration model." He cast spells to cut the bottom off the pumpkin and clean out the seeds and pulp. "Your mother's Muggle-born. How is it you've never carved a pumpkin?"

"Dad's all thumbs with knives. We use paint to decorate."

What fun. "Make sure you wave your wand evenly when you cast the scraping spell," he said. "The inside needs to be a uniform thickness for the effect to work properly." He held out his hand, expecting her to give him the pattern she wanted to trace.

She placed her hand in his. "Are you going to teach me a spell?"

He couldn't say no. She might think he was trying to get on with her when he wasn't, and wouldn't, even if she was better-looking than most Weasleys, and had— "Blue eyes," he said. "Your eyes are blue, not brown." He had never been close enough to see the colour.

"My mother's heterozygous," she whispered.

"Obviously." Scorpius cleared his throat. "The pattern," he said, placing Rose's hand on the pumpkin. "If the pumpkin isn't dry, the transfer spell won't trace the pattern onto the skin."

"Oh."

"Do you have a pattern?"

"I made one for the giant pumpkin."

That meant no. He strode over to the teacher's desk to hunt for self-inking quills. He found the two he needed. "Black for holes, red for areas you want to peel," Scorpius said. "Go on."

Rose didn't take the quills. "I made a negative image of a black and white photograph for my pattern. I can't draw."

She expected to carve a pumpkin that would sway her House using only the memory of a photograph. "Barking," he said between bursts of laughter. "You are absolutely barking."

"I'm glad I amuse," she said icily.

Scorpius said, "I can leave or I can draw. Your choice."

She hesitated.

"Slytherin already has a pattern," he said. "One that will _transfer brilliantly. _I won't steal your idea."

"I wasn't—it's just—" Rose exhaled sharply. "I don't think it's possible to carve the Shrieking Shack on a normal-sized pumpkin."

"The basic silhouette should be enough." Scorpius got to work.

When it came to carving, he talked her through the steps. She cut all the holes and then took out the pieces before using a peeling spell to remove the skin in targeted areas.

"All it needs is a sealant charm and a candle," Scorpius said when they were done.

"It's fantastic." Rose sighed. "I probably shouldn't ask, but why did you help me?"

Scorpius said, "I have my reasons."

-

On the day of Hallowe'en, the teams selected by each House cleaned and carved the giant pumpkins transported from Hagrid's garden to the front entrance of Hogwarts. At sunset, house-elves lit candles inside each pumpkin. As the crowd of students watched, the Heads of House and the Headmaster consulted together to judge the entries.

Scorpius curled his lip over Hufflepuff's witch flying on her broomstick beneath a full moon and glanced dismissively at the complex vine design of Ravenclaw House. Gryffindor's effort was the only true competition. The image of Shrieking Shack looked more eerie and menacing than the real thing.

"Quite a feat," he said softly. His eyes went to the Celtic dragon the Slytherin team had carved into pumpkin shell. It was so lifelike; he could almost feel the heat from the flames.

It was no surprise when the Headmaster raised his hand for silence and announced Slytherin House the winner. That didn't make the victory any less sweet. Scorpius clapped Edgar on the shoulder and added his cheers to those of his housemates.

During the Hallowe'en Feast, while the other Slytherins toasted each other and crowed over their supremacy, Scorpius kept his eye on a group of Gryffindors.

Edgar leaned over to grab the salt. "Marianne overheard James Potter say if they had carved Snape's face like his father suggested they would have won."

Scorpius said, "Marianne overheard—how?"

"She happened to be standing near the Gryffindors when Slughorn announced the winner." Edgar grinned. "I told her that would be good place to stand."

"Very good indeed." Scorpius looked over at Rose Weasley and caught her staring daggers at him. She had realised why he'd helped her: he hadn't wanted to take the chance that Potter's idea was better than his.

Next Hallowe'en, the Gryffindors would no doubt be carving Severus Snape's portrait. The thought didn't intimidate Scorpius. He smiled.

He would carve Voldemort.

* * *

_A/N: Happy Hallowe'en! Special thanks to __**MollyCoddles **__for beta-ing the story. It's a prequel to the seventh year fic I'll start posting after banging out a novel in November alongside fellow RL Wrimos, so I hope readers will look forward to December for more than holidays, :D, and treat me to a review!_


	18. Nymphadora Tonks

****

**_Anything you recognise belongs to JK Rowling. We are just having fun playing in her world._**

**_Please read and review._**

Hallowe'en Hang-Ups

_(Nymphadora Tonks)_

_by_

_Bad Mum_

The gang of noisy Gryffindors clattering down the main staircase nearly went flying over the lone figure huddled on the bottom step.

"Tonks! What the hell d'you want to sit there for? I nearly broke my neck then!" complained the tall black boy who was leading the group.

"Not my fault if you can't be bothered to look where you're going, is it?" Tonks retorted. "You've got eyes in your head, Bishop."

Her adversary looked as though he might argue the point further, but he was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. "You lot go on in," Charlie Weasley commanded. "I'll catch you up."

There was a snigger from a boy at the back of the group. "_Sure_ you will, Weasley. We all know you're sweet on our Nymphadora."

"Don't call me that!" from Tonks and "Watch it, Harvey!" from Charlie came simultaneously, but had the desired effect. The other boys shrugged and moved on into the Great Hall, leaving Charlie standing beside Tonks, who was still hunched up on the stairs.

"What's up, Dorie?" he asked lightly, sitting down beside her in a companionable manner, and taking in her dull brown hair, dark eyes and disgruntled expression at a glance. "Aren't you going in to the feast?"

Tonks shook her head. "I don't like Hallowe'en."

"What?" Charlie looked at her uncomprehendingly. "You're a witch. How can you _not _like Hallowe'en?"

"You're a Pureblood, Charlie. You wouldn't understand," Tonks said, scowling. "Go on in and leave me alone, for Godric's sake."

It was tempting. Charlie thought longingly of the food on the groaning tables in the Great Hall. For a Weasley to miss a meal of any kind – let alone a feast – went against the grain. But Tonks was his friend, and she was unhappy.

"Try me," he told her. "And for Merlin's sake, do something to your hair. You don't look like you with brown hair."

She scowled at him, but then screwed up her face, and her hair changed from messy brown to long, sleek and black. Her face went so pale that it was nearly white, and her eyes were black. "Better?" she asked grudgingly.

He frowned. "Not a lot, but it'll do." His tone softened. "What's up, Dorie?"

She half smiled. "No one except you calls me that any more. Even Bill calls me Tonks now."

Charlie smiled too. "I like to be different. And it suits you. But don't change the subject. Tell me what's wrong."

"I don't like Hallowe'en."

"So you said. Why ever not?"

Tonks sighed, and avoided his eyes. "Well… You know my Dad's Muggle-born?"

"Yeah. So what?"

"His family were really religious. Not just going to church at Christmas religious, but _really_ religious. Swallowing the whole Bible hook, line and sinker as the inspired word of God." She looked up and regarded Charlie quizzically. "You do know what I'm talking about? You _were _in the Muggle studies lessons when we did religions."

He nodded. "Yeah. I remember. Vaguely at least."

Tonks frowned. "You never pay proper attention to anything except Care of Magical Creatures do you? Well, I guess 'vaguely' will have to do, if that's the best you can manage." She shook her long hair back from her face, looking frustrated. "Anyway, Dad's family had real problems coming to terms with him being a wizard. As far as they were concerned, anything to do with magic was evil by definition. There's even a bit in the Bible saying it's okay – more than okay, _good_ – to kill witches."

Charlie gave a low whistle. "Wow. I can imagine that might cause problems when you find out your son's a wizard."

Tonks grimaced. "Yeah, it did. But they came to terms with it in the end. They could see that there was something different about Dad, and – to do them credit – they didn't reject it – or him – out of hand. I think they had to modify some of their beliefs a lot, but they came to realise magic and evil weren't necessarily the same thing." She sighed. "I don't remember them at all; I wish I did. They were quite old when Dad was born, and they died when I was just a baby."

Charlie frowned. "So what has all that got to do with you not liking Hallowe'en?"

Tonks sighed and leaned back against the wall, her eyes closed. "Dad's got a few hang-ups because of his upbringing," she said quietly. "I guess that was inevitable. I mean, he couldn't just _stop_ believing what he'd been brought up to believe when he found out he was a wizard. One of his hang-ups is that he hates – I mean really_ really _hates– Hallowe'en. He says that Muggles just see it as all the worst things in magic – wicked witches, evil black cats, scary ghosts and ghouls, demons and devils. Nothing positive at all. He can't see Hallowe'en as something to celebrate, even though the magic world doesn't see it the same way, obviously. So we never did. And I guess he passed his hang-ups onto me." She opened her eyes and looked at Charlie challengingly. "You can say it if you want. I'm weird."

Charlie grinned, and put his arm companionably around her shoulders. "Dorie," he said mock-seriously. "You're weird." His tone lightened. "But then, I've known that for years. What about your Mum? Didn't she want to celebrate Hallowe'en?"

Tonks snorted. "Oh, you know my Mum. She might not talk to her family any more, but she's just as influenced by the way she was brought up as Dad is. As far as the Blacks are concerned, Hallowe'en is an excuse for a nice Pureblood ball or party. Terribly civilised. Posh food. No jokes or pumpkin lanterns. Unless she could have that – and clearly she can't now – she's as happy to ignore Hallowe'en as Dad is."

Charlie frowned. "Poor you. You missed out on all the fun. We have the _best_ Hallowe'en parties at home."

"We did Bonfire Night instead. That's pretty cool."

"What the hell's Bonfire Night?" Charlie enquired.

"It's a Muggle thing. Something to do with someone trying to blow up the Muggle parliament in sixteen hundred and something, though no one really bothers about that now. _'Remember, remember the fifth of November, gunpowder, treason and plot…' _We have a bonfire, and fireworks and sausages and baked potatoes and toffee apples and popcorn and treacle toffee. It's fun."

"Sounds it," Charlie said, trying not to think of the feast he was missing right now. "But seriously, Dorie, just 'cause your Mum and Dad have hang-ups isn't a reason to miss one of the best nights of the year at school."

Tonks sighed. "I guess not. And I'm making you miss it too."

"You're not _making_ me. I just don't like to see you miserable."

Tonks smiled properly at last. "You're too nice, Charlie."

"Don't be an idiot, Dorie. But for Godric's sake, come and have something to eat. I'm starving."

Tonks laughed out loud, and let him pull her to her feet, even giggling as he flicked his wand and changed her Hufflepuff tie into the scarlet and gold of Gryffindor.

"Change your hair," he ordered. "You can be an honorary Weasley for the night. Then you don't have to worry about what your Mum and Dad do or don't think of Hallowe'en."

Tonks screwed up her face and turned her hair a red as bright as Charlie's own, then let herself be led into the Hall to a seat at the Gryffindor table between Charlie and Bill, who raised his eyebrows at the sight of her, but said nothing, merely moving up on the bench to make room. Charlie was already loading her plate – as well as his own – with sausages and potatoes.

Tonks realised she was hungry.

* * *

_A/N Tonks' reference to Muggles seeing Hallowe'en only as the worst side of magic might seem odd to Americans, or even younger Brits. But in 1987, when Tonks and Charlie were coming up to fifteen, and when this story is set, trick or treating was simply a weird American custom that hadn't made it to these shores yet. Dressing up and general jollity were certainly not a common feature of Muggle Hallowe'ens then._


	19. Ginny Weasley

****

**_Anything you recognise belongs to JK Rowling. We are just having fun playing in her world._**

**_Please read and review._**

**The Quaffle**

_(Ginny Weasley)_

_by _

_Princess Gillybean_

She was an idiot. A stubborn sentimental idiot. Of course she had adamantly refused her mother's help and now she was paying for it in sweat and blood. But it was James' first proper Halloween after all (they were all trying as hard as possible to forget last year's disaster) and she'd be damned if she didn't make the stupid costume herself.

She yelped as the pin jabbed her finger viciously. "Wrong direction." She muttered forcefully pointing it towards the bright red lump that was supposed to be James' quaffle costume. She sighed, there was no denying the kid was hers, and a Potter at that. He'd been very forceful when she'd asked him what he'd like to dress up as for Halloween. "And Merlin knows it's always been impossible to reason with a Potter." She sighed and rubbed her eyes tiredly. She'd been working on it for a little over an hour. She looked over at her son, curled up on his play-mat, impossibly fast asleep. His thumb was stuck firmly in his mouth and under his arm he clutched as much as possible of the large stuffed wolf, 'werewolf' Ginny could practically hear Teddy's voice correcting her.

A sharp pain in her wrist drew her attention. The pin was back jabbing at her again, as if to tell her she was doing it all wrong. Like she needed telling. For a few moments she regarded her creation then burst into tears, what sort of mother couldn't even make her son a Halloween costume? Harry came tearing into the room, "What's wrong? Where's James?"

"A quaffle for Merlin's sake! how bloody hard is to make a quaffle costume?" She demanded tearfully. "I'm a terrible parent, James will hate me forever! Everyone will laugh at him and his failure of a mother, he'll be scarred for life, he'll never be the same…"

"Er Honey I think you're overreacting just a little." Harry said pushing her gently till she was seated on the lounge. She gave a shuddering sob. "I am not. Just look at it."

He did, rubbing her back soothingly, "You know it's highly unlike James will even remember…" The look on her face instantly told him that this was the wrong thing to say, he backtracked hurriedly, "I mean, it's not that bad, and James will be enjoying himself so much. He loves you very much because you're an amazing mother."

"Liar,"

"You are a fabulous mother. You don't have to be perfect for that."

"If I was fabulous I could make a stupid Hallowe'en costume."

"You've survived James this far, I'd say that makes you pretty fabulous, costume or not. Just look at what he's put you through already."

She sniffed, slightly mollified, "He's worse than Fred and George were combined."

"I've no doubt. Possibly it was a bad idea to combine Potter and Weasley genes." He was rewarded with a small smile, "Oh definitely, you wouldn't believe what he did to my new shoes yesterday…" but Harry never did find out, at that moment, the latest Potter/Weasley progeny chose to wake up. Yawning sleepily he toddled over from the mat he'd been curled up on.

"Kwaffel." He said beaming up at his mother and pointing excitedly at the heap of red materiel and tangled cotton abandoned on the floor.

"Oh my clever boy." Ginny was ecstatic as she swooped down on James, raining kisses on his face "He said his first word!"

"Let me get the camera!" Harry rushed off .

Ginny bounced James up and down on her should, cooing, "can you say mummy? Come on darling, _mum-my_."

Harry returned, not only with their magical camera but also a muggle camcorder, "Say Daddy, James."

"Mummy. It's easy honey, have a go."

"Kwaff." James gurgled happily. "Kwaff."

Ginny glanced slyly at Harry who was snapping away and fumbling to change between camera quick enough. "He's going to be a Chaser." She informed him smugly. "Just like his mummy."

"Maybe if you'd let him have a snitch costume he'd have said…"

"He wanted a quaffle, he made that very plain." She interrupted scornfully.

"He only just said his first word, maybe you misinterpreted." Harry retorted.

"A mother always knows." Ginny replied darkly and Harry, correctly reading the warning signs in her eyes, suggested they go tell her parents about the latest exciting development.


	20. Ron Weasley

**_Anything you recognise belongs to JK Rowling. We are just having fun playing in her world._**

**_Please read and review._**

**Of Spiders, Ghosts, and Severe Allergic Reactions**

_(Ron Weasley)_

_by_

_Wotcher-Tonks_

Ron Weasley had never much liked Halloween.

When he was just a small child, Fred and George had spent the weeks leading up to Halloween shut up in their room, plotting. Unfortunately for Ron, most of their plans involved spiders at some point.

When he was in his first year at Hogwarts, he and Harry rescued Hermione from a mountain troll. Everyone who heard about that story laughed and called him brave, but Ron still had nightmares, ones where he didn't get there in time to save her, or there were two trolls, and he would wake up covered in a sheen of cold sweat, his heart pounding.

His second year, he missed out on a truly excellent feast. Why? To attend a ghostly Deathday party, courtesy of Nearly-Headless-Nick. Instead of wonderful pumpkin dishes and intricate jack-o-lanterns, there were plates of moldy cheese and eerie blue flames.

Then third year, where they had to sleep in the Great Hall after Sirius had slashed the Fat Lady's portrait. Ron had never really forgiven Sirius for that awful fright, even though he knew Sirius had just been looking for that damned rat.

And so on, and so forth, until Ron thoroughly hated Halloween.

And then he had kids, and they wanted to go trick-or-treating.

Hermione had beamed and picked out cutesy costumes, Rose, a fairy, and Hugo, Merlin (the long beard looking fairly ridiculous on the four-year old.)

He and Hermione went out with the Potter kids, and they had a grand old time.

Until they found out that Hugo was allergic to caramel, and Ron and Hermione spent most of the night mopping his forehead with a damp cloth as he threw up.

Ron Weasley had never much liked Halloween.


	21. Michael Corner

******_Anything you recognise belongs to JK Rowling. We are just having fun playing in her world._**

**_Please read and review._**

_**A/N:**__ An outtake from __**Daphne Greengrass and the 7th Year From Hell**__. Michael Corner is in a relationship with Daphne Greengrass, a "good" Slytherin who is spying on the Slytherins, the Carrows and Snape for Dumbledore's Army. Thanks to respitechristopher for beta-reading this.)_

* * *

**Monsters and Heroes**

_(Michael Corner)_

_by_

_Whiskey Tango Foxtrot_

This was the first time in seven years that Michael Corner was not looking forward to the Halloween feast.

No amount of sweet-filled floating pumpkins or cauldrons or even pumpkin juice spiked with firewhiskey from Terry Boot's supplies was going to erase the horrors already wrought by Snape, the Carrows, or the students that espoused their beliefs.

Evil was everywhere these days, and Hogwarts was no exception.

Michael descended from the dormitory to the Ravenclaw common room, where the sounds of a girl weeping reached his ears. He tiptoed down the small flight of steps, hoping not to startle the girl and reached the stone of the common room floor.

The scene that he observed made his chest seize.

A blonde girl, whom he recognized as a first-year named Stella McLaughlin, was sobbing as she held her arm. Michael stomach churned as he got a closer look; her right forearm was bent in a very unnatural way and there were bruises around the injury and on her face as well.

"Uh . . . h-hey, er . . . Stella's your name, right?"

The girl jumped up and shrieked. "_N-no! _What do you _want_?! D-don't h-hurt me, please!" She curled up into a ball and tried to get away from Michael by retreating to the opposite side of the couch, but she hurt her arm as she did so.

"_Aaah!_"

She balled up, her body covering her arm, shielding it from Michael's view. She breathed in great, halting hisses and gasps.

"Wait! It's okay, it's okay." His hands flew up in front of his face, his palms facing outward. "I'm not going to hurt you. I . . . I saw you down here, a-and," he gestured at her, "Stella," he wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers, and went to kneel in front of her. "Let me see . . . please? I need to know how bad it is, all right?"

She sniffled and regarded him for a few moments.

"I promise," he said again. "I won't hurt you."

Finally, she nodded.

Michael got a better look at Stella. He could see the trails of tears running down her cheeks. Her whole face was red, wet and shiny. She looked so lost and despondent that it just broke his heart.

Michael had never had any real experiences taking care of anyone younger than him. He had been an only child, and when he was in primary school, he had friends who were his age, or even a little older. At Hogwarts, a few of the younger students had looked up to him, Anthony and Terry, wanting to be like him and his friends.

He couldn't fathom why, though. Why these kids would've looked up to him, in particular. Other than the fact that he had one brilliant friend and one friend who could charm the pants off of a Death Eater if he so chose, Michael Corner was really quite . . .

_Ordinary._

In the spectrum of greatness among the Hogwarts student body, he was always one step behind either a Chosen One or a champion, if one gauged his lack of success in relationships.

He was no hero. And this girl needed a hero. Not him.

"This is a really bad break, or . . . er, fracture," Michael corrected himself. He patted her arm with a feather-light touch; she sucked in a breath and winced.

"Sorry."

Stella continued to cry, but Michael noticed her tears were lessening as he attended to her.

"Hey, I'm no expert in these types of injuries," Michael said, keeping his voice steady and light, trying to keep her calm, "and unfortunately, Anthony and Padma aren't here to help take care of you, but I'll do my best. Will you trust me?"

She nodded.

"Okay, so . . . I'm going to go get Pomfrey—" Michael got up to leave.

"_NO!_" She shouted at him emphatically. "D-don't go out th-there! Th-_they_ w-went out there! Th-they'll get you!"

"It's okay . . . it's okay. You need more help than I can give—" He stopped talking and his eyes widened into two perfectly round circles.

Something that she had said clicked in his head.

"Stella," he said slowly, "you said _they_ went out there? Were you attacked in here? In our common room?"

Slowly — painfully slowly — she nodded.

"Who did this to you?"

She looked at him with terrified eyes. "Y-you'll t-tell them. . . ? I c-can't—"

"I won't. Believe me, I won't. But, I need to know so I can keep you safe from them. Can you tell me _who_ did this to you?'

She gulped, continuing to cry. "Gr-Grant P-Page and D-Duncan Inglebee." Her voice was whisper soft, and it quivered as her body shook.

There was a beat of silence.

"Page and Inglebee?" His voice was low and soft, but dangerous in tone.

She nodded.

Michael felt his fury rise, the blood rushing to his head like the Hogwarts Express speeding right into a tunnel. It hadn't been two Slytherins who had caused pain to this girl — a girl he could practically fit into the palm of his hand — but two Ravenclaws, two _bastards_ of Ravenclaws that had caused violence on one of their own.

He knew that Page and Inglebee had nothing but disdain for Muggles and Muggle-borns, but he had thought that they would have kept their vitriol to words, verbal tauntings and insults. Michael would have never imagined that they could be capable of physically abusing a young student like this, but, looking at Stella, scared and shaking and wounded, he chose to believe her.

And he grew more and more sick with fury as he did so.

_Before you do anything, you need to get this girl medical care—_

_And then you can kick those sorry bastards' arses all the way back to the eighteen-hundreds!_

Racking his supposedly brilliant Ravenclaw mind, Michael looked frantically around the common room to see if there was anything he could use to send a message to the Hospital Wing.

His eyes rested on the fireplace.

"Floo—" he whispered to himself. He got up off of his knees to walk over to it.

"Where are you going?" Stella asked desperately. "_Please_ . . . I don't want to be alone here!"

"Don't worry, I'm not leaving you. I'm going to try Flooing Madam Pomfrey, all right? But, if I can't, _I _will take you personally to the Hospital Wing, okay? I'll Disillusion you if I have to, but if you have to leave this common room, you will not get hurt." He looked her squarely in her eyes. "I won't let that happen."

Stella wiped her face furiously.

"I swear that no one will hurt you."

She looked at him and slowly nodded in agreement.

Michael didn't stop breathing until Madam Pomfrey arrived to examine the first year's injuries. For her part, Stella had calmed down and had composed herself enough to answer most of Pomfrey's inquiries about what had happened. But she had insisted, throughout the examination, that Michael sit next to her.

He had had no idea how to react when she pushed up against him, practically underneath his arm. Somewhat awkwardly, he put his arm partially around her, patting her on the top of her back in a brotherly fashion. It did seem to calm Stella down.

Once she had had a proper look over, Pomfrey gave her something to alleviate the pain so they could walk to the Hospital Wing. Stella was adamant that Michael accompany her and the matron, and he accepted without hesitation

"See?" he said with a bright smile and gentle voice. "Let yourself rest and let Pomfrey take care of you, and you'll be as good as new."

She looked at him with a small, unsure, shaky smile. "Th-thanks, Michael."

He grinned. "No problem. Look, I don't think you'll be able to go to the big Halloween feast tonight, but how about if me and some of my friends come up and bring you some sweets? Make sure you're okay?"

"Ha-Halloween? I . . . I had forgotten today was Halloween." Stella looked at the floor forlornly as they reached the Hospital Wing. Michael pushed open the door, allowing Pomfrey and the girl to pass. However, just as Michael was about to leave, she turned around, a quizzical expression on her face. "Do they have parties here?"

"The common rooms usually do. Terry Boot always has something up his sleeve for ours." He winked at her.

Stella looked at him for a moment. "Do you dress up? In costumes and masks?"

Michael shook his head. "No, not here. It's really just an excuse for sweets and parties. No one really goes around dressed like goblins or ghouls or monsters."

He noticed Stella pale just a little, but almost as suddenly, a flash of anger crossed her face and her nostrils flared. "_Good_. I've seen enough of monsters today."

His breath caught in his throat and his face fell. "They'll be handled. We're going to do everything to make sure you're protected, and if they're bothering anyone else, we'll do something to put a stop to it."

She paused and faced him. She walked very quickly up to him and, using her good arm, she hugged him around his middle. Michael couldn't help but blush a little

"Er, thanks."

"Thank you for saving me." And she broke away from Michael with a shy little wave and she disappeared behind some screens.

* * *

Later that same day, Michael found himself in the Astronomy Tower but he wasn't alone. He turned to look at her. "Happy Halloween."

Daphne Greengrass sauntered over towards him and sat down next to him. "Right back at you."

"Here," and he dropped a number of sweets and chocolates into her lap. She took a chocolate pumpkin and unwrapped it.

"You look like you just found a turd in your treacle tart."

Michael snorted. "Anyone ever tell you how eloquent you are?"

Daphne popped the pumpkin into her mouth. "All the time." She chewed her chocolate, but she continued to watch him. "Michael, what's wrong?"

He leaned against the stone wall, beating his head against the surface absent-mindedly. "Two fifth-year Ravenclaws attacked a first-year girl in our own common room."

He heard Daphne hiss. "How is she?"

"They broke her arm and bruised her up really good. I'm thinking they used several Bludgeoning Hexes and a Bone-Breaker." Michael lolled his head towards Daphne. "I found her sitting all by herself on a couch in the common room, scared and hurting, and — _Merlin_!" He stuck his tongue between his teeth and pressed his lips on it. "When she told me Page and Inglebee were the ones that hurt her, I wanted to throttle them!"

Daphne stared at him, worried. "Did you?"

"Not yet," he said, blinking. "I Flooed Pomfrey from our common room. After she examined her, we escorted her to the Hospital Wing."

A charmed smile spread slowly on across her face. "That's, well, that's really . . ." she shrugged, unable to think of anything else to say, "_sweet_."

Michael rolled his eyes, but grinned at her. "Stella didn't want me to leave her side. Not when Pomfrey was checking her out—"

Daphne's right eyebrow threatened to fly right off of her face. "You were in the exam room with her?"

"In the _Ravenclaw – common – room_," he said with a flattened mouth, "honestly . . ."

"Okay, okay. Sorry," Daphne flashed him a cheeky grin. "So she didn't want to be separated from you?"

"No. She was really scared, you know? And she," Michael cleared his throat, "she thanked me and gave me a hug. For saving her."

She grinned. "Well, of course she did." She nudged him with her elbow. "You're her hero, Michael. Her white knight in shining armor."

He snorted and ruffled his shaggy brown hair. "I wasn't there to stop them, though. And I haven't done anything to teach them what happens when they abuse another student." He shook his head. "Some bloody hero, huh?"

"Michael."

He looked at her.

"What's the matter? Why are you being like this?"

He looked at her for a very long time, blinking a couple of times as he tried to think of the answer to her very simple, but no less perplexing question. He took a breath.

"I . . . I'm always just," he rubbed his nose, "right behind someone else, you know? Always one step off or in someone else's shadow." Michael shook his head and counted off of his fingers. "With Ginny it was Harry Potter, or even her brothers. I mean, she _idolized _them. And," he held up a second finger, "With Cho, it was Cedric Diggory. I mean . . . _Cedric Diggory_! An actual _champion_!"

He turned and looked at her. "I'm glad I managed to get ahead of the curve with one person at least." She smiled as he winked at her. With a sigh, Michael focused on a spot on the opposite side of the room. "But even when you've been in trouble, I never seem to be in the right place and the right time to actually _be_ a hero."

Daphne pushed her lips out, clearly thinking about something. With her closest hand, she brushed back the pesky strands of hair that always seemed to fall in Michael's eyes.

"You said she was all alone and hurt?"

He nodded.

"But you were the one who found her and you got her medical attention."

"Well, yeah, but—"

"Maybe it's not about you stopping some bad thing from happening to another person, but what you do when a bad thing happens." She took hold of his hand. "Bad things always happen, they're always going to occur. But you put that girl ahead of going after the blokes that did that to her, and you got her the help she needed." She shrugged, lacing her fingers in his. "I think you made the right choice. She needed help more than she needed someone to go after those idiots. She saw you as her protector and a friend who helped her out, and," Daphne nodded. "That makes you a hero."

Michael just looked at, letting Daphne kiss him on the lips.

He gave her a small smile. "You think I'm a hero?"

"I _do_ think you're a hero."

After a few moments, Daphne's brow fell. "If these two prats—"

"Page and Inglebee."

"If they're willing to attack students in their own house, you can bet they're probably hanging around some of ours. I'll keep my eye out on the usual suspects — Crabbe, Goyle, Malfoy. Also Baddock and Pritchard. I'd say they're the two worst sixth-years, practically worshipping Crabbe and Goyle's philosophy — curse first, and . . . well, just curse first. Not to mention hurting as many of the half-bloods as possible."

"Be careful." Michael leaned forward and kissed her forehead. "I don't want to see you get hurt by them too."

She took a breath through her nose. "Kind of hard not to these days. Look around us. Even Hogwarts is filled with monsters."

Stella's words from earlier floated into his head and, almost unconsciously, he whispered them. "_I've seen enough monsters today_ . . ."

"What?"

Michael shook his head absently. "Just thinking that all this needs to be over very, _very_ soon." He wrapped his arm around her and the two teenagers sat together in silent agreement.


	22. Lavender Brown

****

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**Lavender's Lament**

_(Lavender Brown)_

_by_

_Mistress Pol_

_On Halloween, she remembers the happy times, tomorrow, she grieves._

"There's just no point talking to her," Parvati said to Annabel as they sat in the Gryffindor common room. Lavender stared blank eyed, at the people in the common room, not even looking.

"It's Halloween." Parvati said. "Maybe that might cheer her up?"

"I doubt it," Annabel said.

The two walked over to Lavender. "Dear, are you all right?" Parvati asked.

"Mmm," was all the response.

"I told you."

The portrait door opened, and Ron, Hermione and Harry entered.

Lavender's head spun, and she dropped lower in her chair.

"He ditched her, now they are not going to ever get along, I told Lavender it's best to stay friends. But..."

"I know." Parvati said.

Professor McGonagall's voice came from a megaphone.

"Time for the Halloween feast."

The girls took Lavender one on each arm, and carefully and gently, lead her to the table in the great hall.

"I'm not hungry," she said, sadly.

"Lavender, you have to eat."

"No. I want to go outside."

She stood up, opening the doors and walking out onto the marble stairs.

Ron was there.

"Lavender, how's things?" he said with that impish grin that made her throat ache .

"Hmmm, fine Ron Ron." She said the nick name for the last time.

And with that, she fled up the stairs, sobbing.


	23. Argus Filch

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**Filch's Halloween Surprise **

_(Argus Filch)_

_by_

_FirstYear_

Argus Filch was determined to catch the little mischief makers this year. Oh yes, he had come up with the perfect way to get even for all the years of pain they had caused him. He had cleaned up after their little pranks for the last time, mopping up floors and putting things right. He was sick and tired of the Headmasters mollycoddling the little monsters, claiming that he had no proof as to who they were. This year would be different. This year he would catch the pranksters dead to right, snap a picture and have the goods.

He had scavenged for months to find the parts of his perfect costume, the perfect make over for his oh so subtle disguise of deception. Never had he so looked forward to one the Headmasters parties as much as he did this year's Halloween Gala. The only thing that saddened him is that Mrs Norris could not attend with him.

Irma Pince had offered to help him dress, to do his hair, and help him with simple spells if he would only wear a costume this year. She would be his swooning Juliet, and he, her brave hearted Romeo. As much as he wanted to share his surprise with her, and as much as he trusted her silence, he had to say no. When he asked Mrs Norris what to do, she only lifted her tail and walked away with distain. Clearly, he would have to ignore Miss Pince's noble offers again this year.

The first order of business in preparation of the Halloween Gala was to shower and shave, using sweet smelling soaps to mask his smell of fish oil and menthol heated rubs. Finishing that, and running his long skeletal fingers over his now smooth chin and head, he grinned crookedly as he looked in the mirror, imagining the finished result.

Shower and shave completed, the now bald hunchbacked naked squib checked his plans. Picking up a jar that he had stolen from the Ravenclaw girls' shower, he then checked the first and second thing off his list. Reading the directions on the label of the small pink jar, he shrugged his shoulders, wondering how hard could the application be? Even little girls used this stuff, even the Hufflepuff babies had this in their rooms.

He smeared the hair removal cream from his big toes clear up to his brow paying special attention to the hairier places. He paced the floor, watching the clock for fifteen minutes to pass. He paced faster as the thick paste began to warm, and then nearly ran around his small dingy room as the small pin points of heat soon turned into roaring flame.

Grabbing up the jar, now hopping from foot to foot, his long skinny legs and knobbly knees askew, and trying to move without letting his, umm let us say, without him rubbing certain parts, he read the caution section on the little girl's jar again. Grabbing up an old woollen blanket, he threw it around his now blistering shoulders as he took off at a dead run for the dungeons.

"Who is that?" Professor Snape sneered as he stomped to the door. He had heard the insistent pounding and wailing in the hall.

"Ah, Snape," Filch wheezed out and pounded on the door again. "I am burning, burning up. I didn't test it, it said right on it to test it and I didn't do it." His wails grew louder and more insistent.

Snape opened the door and looked out at a thin bald man hopping up and down with a blanket hanging off his shoulders. The man's head was completely bald. His yellowed eyes almost popping out of the parchment white skin, and his entire body, which was in evidence as the blanket fell open with every other hop, was not only naked, but also covered with a gooey mass of slime.

"Quiet!" Snape stepped back as he roared at him. "If you do not leave this instant on your own…"

"No Snape," Filch sputtered. He waved his arm and caused the blanket to open and droplets of goo to fall on the floor. "It is me, Argus."

"Argus who?" Snape took still another step back; least the flaying arms direct some of the substance at him.

"Filch, It's me Argus Filch." He emitted a yowl that could put Mrs Norris to shame.

Pointing his wand at the caretaker Snape cleaned of the offending sludge and curled his lip in distaste at what was left in front of him.

"I do believe you looked better with it on," Snape sneered, as he took in the sight of the man's skinny legs, knobbly knees and shrivelled shaven body parts.

Filch looked down at his body and wailed anew at the sight of blisters and open sores covering his hairless body.

"I could use a potion." He looked up in consternation and tried to adjust the blanket as he winced in pain.

"You could use more then a potion." Snape turned and walked to his lab with a smirk. Returning he handed the poor soul two vials, careful not to touch his hand.

"The blue one is for the burn," Snape intoned. "The other you may take rather then bothering me again."

"What does it do?" Filch asked as he drank down the first potion.

"It is a surprise," the Professor drawled as he shut the door, feeling his lip twitch.

Filch felt much better now that the burns were healed, and wrapping the blanket around himself tightly he hurried back to finish what he had begun, thinking the little pain would be worth it. 'Yes,' he thought. All this would be worth the price if he could catch just one picture of the golden trio up to no good.

He smiled as he thought of their faces when at the stroke of midnight he would reveal his ruse. He had taken a camera from that Collin kid. He would have the pictures enlarged and then see them try to talk their way out of it. He hopped left and right, and left again, his knees going out of kilter, as he grinned widely in glee.

When he finally made it back to his room, and dropped the blanket to examine his body. The hair was gone, and it really did not matter too much how his wrinkled skin looked, most of it he planned to cover anyway. He walked to the file cabinet marked M and pulled out a bag of Muggle make up.

Two days he had sat by the make up counter in "Witches Makeup World" watching witches put this stuff on just so he could learn to do the same. Twice the shops manager had come over and walked around him. Once asking that Argus put his hands on the counter, instead of keeping them warmly in his pockets and out of sight.

Smiling at the memory of his lessons, and his hands in his pockets, he lined up the tiny pots of facial paint and began. First he poured flesh coloured foundation in the palm of his hand and rubbed it over his face and neck, he applied bright red lipstick, and added the colour blue to his eyelids, and a dark rust blush to his hallowed cheeks, in a perfect line from above quivering jowl to ear.

Retrieving a short blond curly wig from the cabinet marked W, putting it on and pushing it high up on his forehead, he smiled as he slapped on a pair of black rimmed glasses and sparkling green earrings to complete the look.

Next, he sat on the side of the bed and grabbed the pair of stockings Rosmerta had bought for him, and this black lace thing with its web of straps that held them up. This had been the trickiest and most expensive part or the costume to acquire. He had gone to Hogsmeade, in the daylight.

"You want what? For whom?" Rosmerta had questioned him. putting her hands on her ample hips when he had asked her for this favour.

"I have a lady friend. I told her I could get her stockings." He had stood meekly in front of her with Mrs Morris under his arm, his eyes darting around the floor as he lowered his head.

"Stockings. You told a lady friend you were going to buy her Muggle panty hose and she thought this was a good thing?" Rosmerta gave his a disbelieving look.

"Yeah," he said, running his hand over his head, "She doesn't put on airs like some."

"Let me fix you up Argus." She had smiled slyly. "Trust me, no witch would want those things." She held out her hand and took his money then made a trip to Diagon Alley and bought him a set of very sexy fish net stockings, complete with black garter belt.

When he finally had the stockings and garter on, having only fallen twice, he looked down on the bed and saw the thong that Rosmerta had referred to as knickers. He would be damned if he could fit that on with what he had to strap down, and decided a nice piece of tape would do just fine.

Walking on his tiptoes so as not to ruin his stockings, and holding on to his hair least it fall down, he found a roll of bright shinny silver tape. Albus had stocked up on Muggle tape to fix the leaking pipes and this came from that stock. He figured if it held water pipes, that it would hold his own pipe just fine.

The first time he managed to tape himself back he sat in a wooden chair to test out the fit, only to jump up with a yelp of pain. Reaching down and pulling the tape off, to adjust himself to the left, he was instantly on his knees, tears running down his made up face, gasping for breath, and he threw his head back with a yowl that brought Mrs Morris running.

Mrs Morris looked at this person collapsed on her master's floor. Walking slowly around the still yelping squib, she wondered why anyone would want to look as this thing did. Thinking it perhaps a Polyjuice potion gone bad she drew out her claws, and gave the intruder a good whack on the arse before walking off, lifting her tail in disgust. Then recognising the wheezing cry, she walked back and gave him two more for being the fool.

Filch staggered to the bed, and grabbed up the bra, determined not to hold on to his pain. Putting on the bra and fastening the clasps, he lifted the straps over his shoulders, and then looking down he frowned at what appeared to be two empty pockets laying on his hairless chest. In a moment of inspiration, he stuffed the empty cups with his old socks, three in each side. Then yanking the green satin green dress over his head, he pushed his arms in the sleeves and tried to breathe as he pulled the now too tight fabric over his chest. Pulling out one sock form each side, he was a little saddened, as any witch would be, at his lack of size, but looking in the mirror he nodded.

He then smiled, perhaps not as widely as he had before, thinking of what he was so close to doing. If he could just make his eyes stop running his make up, he knew he would look better. Just then, one earring fell off and rolled under the bed. He was about to get on his hands and knees and poke around for it, but thought of Mrs Norris and knew it best to go one earring short instead.

As he put his wig right, tightened the lone earring, tugged down and smoothed his skirt he hobbled to the mirror. They had not defeated him yet. He could do this yet, he could.

'Not bad.' He thought, squinting into the mirror through the phoney glasses, able to see only a wavering outline.

Filch stood up as straight as he could, determined to go to the party, and after picking up Snape's second vial, he opened it up and drank it down knowing that the kind Professor would have found a way to ease his pain.

He then forced his bunion riddled feet into the stiletto heels and tottered into the hallway ignoring the itching of his skin, the pain in his feet, and the pinching tape. Finding a way to walk by bowing his legs, and taking short mincing steps, he gingerly walked off to the party.

Hermione Granger was going to arrive at the party late. Her unruly hair had been hard to control this evening as the earlier rain and added humidity had frizzled her curls. Her robes billowed behind her as she rounded the corner and she was quite pleased with herself for discovering Professor Snape's billowing charm. As she neared the doors to the Great Hall, stopping to adjust the black waistcoat and robes she wore, she silently hoped that Snape believed in imitation being the best flattery

Looking up, sneering at the sight of Rita Skeeter who had just opened the door to the festivities Hermione pulled out her wand. As if green scales, a hunchback, and a sidewise gait could disguise the witch, she thought with a smirk. Flicking her wand, all in the spirit of Halloween, she smiled evilly, and watched as a beetle now flew into the hall. If Skeeter had thought to sneak in, she should have worn a better costume.

"Let her stay like that a few hours," Hermione thought to herself as she walked into the party proudly. "Cheap harpy can't out do me."

Hermione continued into the Great Hall and walked to the punch bowl, looking around the room and admiring the decorations. She saw Professor Snape where he sat frowning out at the students from the shadows and thought that the clothes may indeed make the man.

He rolled his eyes, as he caught sight of her, seeing himself as if he were in drag, and leaned back in his chair as he scowled at the group of Gryffindors in the far corner, wondering what they were plotting. He shook his head and grimaced as a squeal came from the youngest of the Weasleys, and echoed through the room. Oh, how he hated these parties.

"Ginny." Harry laughed. "It's just a little bug."

"I hate those things." Ginny nervously looked around to find where it had landed.

A sharp crackling sound came from under Ron's left foot.

"It's fine Sis." He grinned at her, and then lifted his foot to show her. "I took care of it for you."


	24. Harry Potter

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**Tears Shall Drown the Wind**

_(Harry Potter)_

_by _

_Sara Winters_

Harry pushed aside the decorations hanging just behind the portrait when he entered the Gryffindor common room. Glancing around at the abundance of orange and black—streamers, floating jack-o'-lanterns and all manner of flying paper creatures—Harry struggled to hold on to the small smile he'd hid behind through the entire visit with Hagrid. Waving absently at a few of his classmates, he ran up the stairs and to his dorm, relieved to finally escape into the quiet sanctuary.

Harry supposed he was lucky. There weren't many times when he felt their loss. He could go on with his days at school—complete his assignments, spend time with his friends—and live a life that had become more normal and acceptable for him than life with the Dursleys had ever been. Then, there were instances when the absence of his parents threatened to consume him.

This Halloween wasn't more or less special than any of the others. The usual celebrations were going to take place—with the addition of three students being chosen by the Goblet of Fire to compete in the Triwizard Tournament. But this year, it felt different. There was a cloud over the day he'd spent the last three years celebrating and Harry didn't know how to deal with it.

Had the world been terribly different before this year? Yes and no. He'd spent the first nearly eleven years of his life vaguely wishing for the idea of parents to counteract the misery he'd grown up with. It wasn't until Christmas break of his eleventh year, his first at Hogwarts, that Harry got a real idea of who and what he had missed out on.

If Dumbledore hadn't intervened, there was a chance Harry could've stood in front of the Mirror of Erised indefinitely, gazing into his mother's eyes, so like his own, and imagining the comforting and supportive touch of his father's hand on his shoulder. For a sweet, forbidden while he'd distanced himself from reality and come away with nothing but longing for a life he'd never have with parents who'd loved him enough to give him the ultimate gift.

If this cold emptiness was what it meant to love and miss his parents with every fiber of his being, Harry reasoned he could do without the deep longing that accompanied these rare moments. At the end of the day, the feelings just made him wish he could be with them, whatever form that might take. If Hermione could hear his thoughts now, she'd do her level best to rationalize the way he was feeling and steer him away from it, but Harry knew it was impossible to distract himself completely. In time, he would be able to suppress it and live life as normal, but for now, he couldn't deny the melancholy that had been waiting beneath the surface.

In the moments when he thought his existence was little more than a fluke of magic that had taken away a wonderful person, who was he to be grateful for what he had? How could he eat candy and laugh and enjoy himself when the sum of his life came down to a choice he never would've asked his mother to make? It may have been a willing sacrifice on her part, but Harry could feel none of the warmth and happiness he knew should accompany love, not on this day. He felt little more than the wish his parents had never died for him and the unshakeable feeling that he could never live up to their sacrifice.

Harry sat in front of the window next to his bed. The sun was setting, turning the late afternoon sky into a cornucopia of oranges and pinks as it touched the clouds surrounding the castle. Up here, isolated in the tower dorm, it was easy to lose oneself in these kinds of thoughts. Harry imagined his father standing at this same window seventeen years in the past, thinking of the upcoming Quidditch match or what he would say to Lily the next time he saw her. Closing his eyes, he conjured a picture of the two of them together, holding hands and laughing in front of his mind's eye. He wished he could always think of them this way.

Absently, he reached up to brush the moisture from his face. Feeling like this was useless, but Harry couldn't help himself. It had been building for a while now and there was no escaping it. He knew no amount of crying could drown out the sound of the rising wind. The storm inside him would rage until it found little else in him to break down. At this point, he wasn't sure how much was left.

"Harry, what's wrong?"

Startled, Harry jumped away from the window and swiped at his eyes with both hands. He took a deep breath to steady himself and then looked across the room to his concerned roommate. "I'm fine," he said, the answer as automatic as his reflexes on a broom. He desperately hoped the little shake in his voice would go ignored.

"You're not fine," Neville said, stepping closer. "Ron said you seemed a little quiet earlier, but he doesn't know you're in here crying, does he? I could go get him." He turned to leave.

"No," Harry said. Neville turned back and Harry saw the one thing he could scarcely tolerate from one of his friends—pity. "It's nothing," he lied. "You don't have to tell anyone."

"I don't," Neville agreed. "Maybe you need to talk, though." He crossed the room and sat on the window seat Harry had just vacated. "I know we're not really that close, but I'd be willing to listen if you need someone."

"I don't…" Harry let his voice trail off. He remembered Dumbledore's comments from months before and found himself wondering what it would be like to be in Neville's position instead of his own. Rather than have parents who were gone completely, to be able to see and talk to them and know they would never recognize him. For a brief moment, Harry felt less sorry for himself. Neville could show his parents all the love he was capable of giving and receive nothing but wan smiles without recognition in return. Which was a worse kind of hell?

"Today is the anniversary of my parents' deaths," Harry said finally. He didn't add anything else as Neville's face fell into a frown that mirrored his own. He imagined that Neville was briefly thinking the same thing he'd considered—what if their situations were reversed? "I didn't hear the details of what happened that night until Professor Lupin talked to me about it before the end of last term," Harry said, deliberately leaving out Sirius Black's part in the complicated story telling.

"This is the first year I've really…known," he said quietly, his eyes drifting to the darkening sky. Harry blinked as more tears blurred the sight of the sun dipping further below the horizon.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Neville said simply. Harry's eyes were drawn back to him. The other boy twisted his mouth to the side, his eyes dropping as he worried over what to say next. Finally, he spoke. "I know how you feel," Neville whispered. "My p-parents, they—"

"Neville, you don't have to."

His eyes shot up. "No, Harry. I do." He swallowed hard. "For me, it's Christmas." Neville looked down at his hands and began picking at the edge of one of his nails. "My parents were tortured for information about You-Know-Who a few weeks after what happened to your family. They fought as hard as they could, but in the end, the Death Eaters tortured them into insanity," he said, his voice breaking on the last word. Neville looked up and Harry saw that the brown eyes were shiny with unshed tears.

"Do you know what helps?"

Harry shook his head, sure Neville was going to say something about a charm or potion that temporarily took away this debilitating sadness.

"I remember what Gran used to tell me," Neville said. "My parents didn't fight hard for what they believed so everyone else could live in fear and pain. That's what You-Know-Who wanted. They wanted me to have the best life I could. Of course your parents would know you'd have to grieve for them, but I don't think they would've wanted you to suffer every time you think of them."

He offered Harry a small half-smile. "It may sound a little strange, but she's right. The first Christmas she talked to me about it, I tried celebrating what they meant to me instead of spending the entire holiday depressed." Neville nodded slowly and his smile widened. "I took out their pictures. I thought about stories I'd been told. I even read my dad's journal. It helped. It got easier every year. It's still hard for me to see my parents as they are now, but when I cry, it's because I'm proud of who they were and what they did for me. I'd rather my tears go to celebrating their lives than be shed for anything a Death Eater did to them. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction." With one last smile, Neville stood and left the room.

Surprised by the unusual advice, Harry leaned against the window and watched the darkening sky as he considered what Neville had said to him. He had never considered celebrating his parents in place of grieving their deaths, particularly since he didn't know nearly enough about them. Still, it was an idea that might allow one day of the year to stand in honor to them rather than live in infamy as a day of tragedy.

Strange as it seemed, Neville's words made sense. How could they, or any of the victims, cope if they didn't find their own ways to deal with their situations? On the same token, if the balm of hurt minds was to recognize his parents' sacrifice in celebration instead of pain, could the balm for his broken heart be tears for the love they had given rather than what had been taken away?

As he watched the sky darken outside the window, Harry crossed his arms and leaned against the window. When tears filled his eyes again, he closed them and pictured his parents as they might have been on their first date, their wedding day, the day he was born. He pictured them celebrating Halloween in the Great Hall with their friends—Lily smiling at James across a tray of their favorite sweets. After a time, Harry realized the aching he'd felt had lifted—not completely, but enough that he knew he could banish it in time.

Smiling, he stood and left the dorm to join his friends for the celebration.


	25. Albus Severus Potter

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**The Crying Bowl**

_(Albus Severus Potter)_

_by_

_Cassandra's Cross_

Dad is always a bit moodier than usual around Halloween. Of course it's also the anniversary of his parents' murders, so it's hard to blame him, really. If anything like that had happened to _my_ parents. . . Well, I don't think I'd ever get over it either, but it does cast a slight pall over the whole holiday feeling.

It's even worse this year because Mum's been doing a lot of sighing over the fact that this is the first holiday my brother won't be with us. James himself is unlikely to be too fussed, what with the Halloween feast at Hogwarts to look forward to, but Mum and Dad haven't quite got over missing him yet. I hate to admit it, but the first day or so, I missed James quite a lot myself. The house was so quiet without him and it felt downright unnatural. But then James's owl arrived with a letter that rambled on forever about how cool it was that he'd been sorted into Gryffindor and closed with another dig about me being sorted into Slytherin next year, and somehow missing him flew straight out the window for me. Not for Mum and Dad, though, nor for Lily who has always hero-worshipped James, which is a bit nauseating, but little sisters are weird that way.

So as Halloween approached we found ourselves tiptoeing round Dad, as per usual, and listening to Mum moan about James who probably hasn't spared her a second thought since he left home, the git. I took refuge with my cousin Rose, who thrust a book under my nose one afternoon and demanded that I read it.

"The whole book?" I asked, feeling a bit daunted as it was a fairly thick tome.

"No, silly, just that one paragraph," said Rose. "It's all about Halloween."

I took the book from her and read aloud: _"Halloween originated with the Celtic festival of Samhain. . ."_

"'Sow-en,'" Rose corrected me when I said it wrong. "It's pronounced 'Sow-en.'"

I frowned._ "_Why do they spell it that way then?"

"It's Gaelic, Al," Rose sighed, as if I should know already, and snatched the book from me to continue reading:

"_The celebration of Samhain marks the end of the harvest season in Gaelic culture_, _and_ _is sometimes regarded as the Celtic New Year. The ancient Gaels believed that on 31 October, the veil between the two worlds dissolved, making it possible for the living to communicate with the dead. The festival involved bonfires and various rituals meant to honor the dead, including offerings left at the graves of ancestors. Also, because Samhain separated the old year from the new, it was considered an especially auspicious time for divining the future."_

My cousin's eyes, I had noticed, had a distinctive sparkle and that made me nervous. She looked like her dad all of a sudden, and I felt compelled to remind her, "We're not allowed to use magic, Rose. Not that we know enough about it to use it anyway. . ."

"I know that," Rose said. "And I wasn't thinking about using about magic_._ Not _real_ magic anyway."

"What were you thinking then?" I asked warily.

Rose peered at me from the corners of her eyes. I knew what _that_ meant and rued the day I'd shown her the black stone bowl I'd found in an old cabinet at Grimmauld Place. It couldn't be anything dark or dangerous, because my parents had purged the house of Dark objects years ago, and no one objected when I carried it up to my room. I just thought it would be a handy receptacle for my Chocolate Frog cards, but Rose had taken one look and immediately recognized its true purpose.

"What's a crying bowl?" I asked her when she told me what it was.

"Not _crying_, Al," said Rose with a dramatic roll of her eyes. "_Scrying_. It's a form of divination. You fill it with water and stare at it until you see a vision."

"You don't believe that, do you?" I scoffed, but apparently she did because she insisted we try it. So far we hadn't had a smidgen of success, but Rose's mother disapproved of divination, which was a virtual guarantee Rose would keep trying. They're actually a lot alike, Rose and Aunt Hermione, but maybe a little too much so because they're always butting heads. Also, Rose can be very stubborn and once she gets the bit properly between her teeth, it's difficult to talk her out of anything.

"We've never tried it at Halloween," Rose said now. "It's 'an especially auspicious time for divination,' remember? Don't you want to know your future?"

"Not especially," I said, which was a lie, because what if James was right and I _did_ end up in Slytherin? I had cousins in Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, but no one in my family had ever been sorted into Slytherin. What if I was the first? It was a daunting thought.

"Come on, Al!" Rose persisted. "Why do you always have to be such a stick-in-the-mud?"

It wasn't such a bad place to be stuck, I thought. Mud felt wonderful when squished between the toes. It beat racing headlong into the fire anyway, which is where my cousin seemed determined to lead me. The idea of seeing my future was intriguing, but all that stuff about the dead walking amongst the living just seemed. . . . I dunno, creepy. I wasn't afraid of death. Well, not much, but I was certainly no stranger to the subject. Death, after all, had been a constant theme in my family since before I was born.

I was rich in dead relatives. There were my Potter grandparents, who had died when my dad was just a baby. Teddy's mum and dad, who died when _he_ was just a baby, had been killed years later fighting for the same cause. So had our Uncle Fred, who looked just like Uncle George only with two ears, and Sirius Black in whose house we lived. And the two men for whom I'd been named, Albus Dumbledore, the wisest, best Headmaster Hogwarts had ever known, and Severus Snape who. . . Well, I'd never really understood why my parents named me after him. My uncles tended to scowl and mutter whenever my middle name was mentioned. I asked Mum about it once, and she told me Severus Snape hadn't been well liked, though apparently he did something very brave once. Bravery, however, wasn't enough to prevent him from being, in Uncle Ron's estimation: "A greasy-haired, hook-nosed, bad-tempered, slimy, vindictive _git_."

And my parents named me after him. Thanks a lot, Mum and Dad!

I used to dream about them when I was little. I put it down to the fact that everyone talked about them as if they were still around, which is probably why those dreams seemed so very _real_. Sometimes it felt like I was communicating with people who were invisible only in the waking world, and I even passed on messages from my "dream friends" as I tended to think of them. But I stopped talking about my dreams when my prat of a brother decided to take the mickey out of me, and it wasn't long after that I stopped having them. And that was a good thing, because even Teddy gave me a funny look when I told him about a dream I'd had about his mum and dad. Teddy is the one of nicest people I know too, so if _he_ thought I was barmy, what hope was there?

It wasn't as if I needed anything else to make me feel like a freak. It was bad enough having the world's dorkiest name, not to mention a father who happens to be the wizarding world's greatest hero, and I happen to look just like him so people always expect me to _be _like him which is a laugh because I'll _never_ be like Dad. Don't get me wrong, I'm proud of my father, but there are times when I wish I was just a normal kid with normal parents. There have even been times when I've thought I wouldn't mind being a Muggle, though to be totally honest, I'm not sure I'd ever go quite _that_ far.

I didn't much fancy the idea of using the "crying bowl" again (I still called it that, mainly to annoy Rose), but because I have the backbone of a flobberworm, I let her talk me into it. And fate seemed to favor us, because our parents had decided to go to a party that night, so Rose and Hugo would be sleeping over. It turned out to be a very near thing, because Dad wasn't at all keen on going, but Mum bullied him into it with the help of Aunt Hermione and Uncle Ron who were determined not to allow Dad to brood the way he usually did at Halloween.

Teddy had agreed to babysit (even though I was ten years old and could hardly be called a baby), but Rose was confident he'd fall asleep early enough for us to carry out our plans. I thought she had a point there, as Teddy was in a particularly grueling part of his Auror training and lately tended to drop off in the middle of conversations. Still, I couldn't understand what all the cloak-and-dagger was about. If it wasn't dangerous or dark, as Rose kept assuring me it wasn't, then why keep it a secret?

"There's no point borrowing trouble, is there?" Rose said when I pressed her. "Besides, keeping it all to ourselves makes it more exciting." I shot her a skeptical look, but said nothing because, like I said, I'm a flobberworm.

After our parents had disappeared through the Floo in a flurry of dress robes, we played Exploding Snap with Hugo and Lily, even letting them win a few games to keep them happy, while Teddy's head nodded over a thick sheaf of notes he'd brought along to study for a written exam he was due to sit soon. He woke up long enough to help us roast nuts on the fire and supervised a messy round of cocoa making in the kitchen under Kreacher's baleful eye before declaring that our parents would have his guts for garters if we didn't get to bed straight away. Lily and Hugo kicked up their usual fuss, but Rose and I accepted his edict so docilely that he was instantly suspicious.

"We're just tired is all," Rose explained. "I'm always a bit more tired this time of year. You know, with the cooler weather and it getting dark so much earlier and all. . ."

She gave a huge yawn for emphasis. I thought she was pouring it on a bit thick, but Teddy nodded sleepily and said, "Off you go then. No talking or running back and forth between rooms, all right?"

Hugo was in James's room, but Rose was bivouacked with Lily, so she had to wait until my sister was asleep before coming to mine. While I waited for her, I stretched out on my bed and thought about Halloween. If it was true that the dead walked amongst the living on this night, wouldn't it make sense they'd seek out those they left behind? If so, my family was ripe for a haunting. Thirty-five years, I thought. Thirty-five years ago tonight. . .

I must have dozed off because the next thing I knew, I was staring up at a lot of bushy ginger hair and a pair of bright blue eyes that sparkled with excitement.

"Everyone's asleep," my cousin whispered. "Come on, get up! Where's the bowl?"

It was on my bureau where it usually was. Rose dumped the Chocolate Frogs cards unceremoniously into a drawer before tiptoeing out of the room to fill the bowl with water. She returned a minute later to find me sitting cross-legged on the floor, trying to stifle a yawn. Rose sat down across from me and lit a candle which she placed beside the bowl. Eerie, flickering shadows shimmered across the surface of the water and danced along the walls.

"All right," Rose said. "Let's get started, shall we? Place your hands on the bowl, Al, and _concentrate_."

I sighed. The sooner we got this over with, the sooner I could go back to bed. I placed both hands on the bowl, feeling my cousin's fingers brush against mine, and stared into the water. Minutes passed. My eyes grew heavy and my head began to nod, then I felt a sharp pain in my arm as Rose delivered a vicious pinch.

"Stay awake!" she demanded. "You're supposed to be concentrating!"

I swallowed my resentment and stared determinedly into the bowl whose murky depths revealed nothing but my own reflection staring owlishly back at me. My eyes began to droop again, but I forced them open. And then something odd started happening. The room began to swirl, making me dizzy and lightheaded. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out, and I was floating, spinning through the air, there were stars and clouds, and the air grew cold, but the bowl remained between my hands. What was happening? What was going on?

I squeezed my eyes tightly shut against a freezing gust of wind. When I opened them again I was standing in a forest clearing. Fortunately, I wore a warm jumper and jeans, even a pair of trainers as I hadn't bothered to undress before getting into bed. I looked around. It wasn't anywhere I had ever been before and yet there was a reminiscent feel about the old, gnarled trees that surrounded me. I was, it seemed, quite alone. Rose had disappeared, but I still held the bowl. It was still filled with water too. Incredibly, I hadn't spilled a drop.

There was a rustling in the distance. Alarmed, I looked for the source, but could see nothing in the gloom. Then I heard something that nearly caused me to trip over my own feet as I whirled around.

A man stood before me, wrapped in a long, dark traveling cloak. He had sallow skin, a hooked nose, and shoulder-length hair that looked rather stringy. "I. . . I beg your pardon," I said, cringing at the sound of my own voice which seemed to carry a long way in the dense silence. "I didn't mean . . . I must have accidentally taken a Portkey or something and now I. . . Well, I don't know where I am."

I found myself fixed in the cross-beams of a pair of penetrating black eyes. "You are Albus Severus Potter," he said in a quiet, silky voice that seemed oddly familiar, though I couldn't quite place it.

I blinked. "I. . . Sorry, do I know you?"

His thin lips curved into a smile that looked more like a sneer. "I know _you_." He looked me up and down. "You look like your father. And your grandfather." He looked into the distance and the stern lines of his face seemed to soften. "But you have _her _eyes."

I shook my head, thoroughly confused. "I don't understand."

"I didn't think you would. You had a question, I believe."

I realized I must be dreaming. Either that or it had something to do with the scrying bowl. Whatever it was, I might as well get some answers. "I wanted to know about my Sorting. It's not till next year, but my brother. . ."

"That," he said, "is unimportant."

"But my brother. . ."

"There will always be those who try to goad you or hold you up to ridicule. That's part of your lot in life, but ridicule is like fear in that only destroys those who surrender to it."

He was speaking in riddles! "Where am I?"

"The Forest of Dreams. As to how you got here, you were the one who wanted to know your future."

I was even more confused now, but also afraid. All my other concerns had evaporated in the cold and dark. "Who _are_ you?" I asked, past caring how rude I sounded.

"That's also unimportant. Though if you like, you can think of me as the Advance Guard." And his lips curved into another mocking smile.

I wanted my family. I wanted to go _home_. Wherever I was, I wanted to return to a place of light, warmth, and security, but I didn't know where it was and had no idea how to begin looking for it.

"Sir," I said, "I'm lost. Can you help me find my way?"

Again he looked into the distance, seeing something not visible to me. "I may not be the one to ask. I chose the wrong way."

I stared. "Sorry?"

"I could have had love, or at least friendship. Instead I chose power. I could have been kind. Instead I inspired fear. I could have asked for help. Instead I stood alone. The great tragedy of my life was that I created my own darkness, and it was a place where light could not abide. I lived to regret it. I regret it still.

This wasn't helping, I thought, but it seemed he hadn't finished. "There are two main paths in life," he said. "The path of selflessness or selfishness, but the first requires you to leave the world a better place while the second leaves you merely alone. You will face many choices, young Potter. Choose rightly and you will find the path that will take you where you need to go. Choose wrongly and you will end in darkness."

What path? What was he talking about? I felt another ripple of fear, but before I could ask anything else, he said, "Choose well," and with a loud "pop" disappeared.

Now I was really alone and darkness enveloped me. The hoot of an owl almost caused me to jump out of my skin. Beads of sweat formed along the edges of my hair. I began to tremble, not from cold which I no longer felt, but from fear. Solid, unwavering fear that came from somewhere within and froze me where I stood. I stood there for what felt like years, clutching the bowl as to a lifeline and for a moment it seemed not so much filled with water as tears. As a matter of fact, I felt real tears slip from my eyes. Maybe it really was a "crying" bowl.

"Help!" I shouted, hearing my voice bounce off the trees. "Somebody please _help_ me!"

The words no sooner passed my lips when a light flickered in the distance. My feet began to move, leading me toward it. I broke into a run as the light grew brighter, welcoming and drawing me near. And then _they_ came, apparently out of nowhere. A silver wolf stepped out of the trees and I shrank back, startled and fearful. But the wolf strode along the path with a gentle swish of his tail and I knew he was there, not to harm me but for my comfort. A smaller wolf soon joined him, tripping over a tree root as she came, and a great black dog bounded up, tongue lolling, tail wagging, gamboling in excited circles around the pair. A shower of autumn leaves made me look up. A silver squirrel was hopping from branch to branch, seeming to laugh into my startled face as he sent another cascade of leaves down to join the first. A low, musical cry sounded overhead and a majestic, brightly plumed bird soared past. And on the path ahead, surrounded by light, a stag with a magnificent rack of antlers stood next to a doe with soft, gentle eyes. I knew them somehow. They were old friends, all of them, and they'd come to lead me home. They moved in closer, filling me with warmth, and I drifted into their loving embrace.

* * *

"Al! Al, wake up!"

It was Rose and she sounded agitated. My eyes flew open. I was lying in bed, still fully clothed, even down to the trainers which I'd apparently forgotten to take off before I fell asleep. "I'm so sorry, Al," Rose said. "I fell asleep! And now Halloween is over. We missed our chance!"

"What are you talking about?" I said, rubbing my eyes as I sat up. "We did it, Rose, and it worked! It was like a Portkey, I think, and . . . ."

"Al," said Rose, shaking her head. "You must have been dreaming. I fell asleep and so did you. And look, see? The bowl is still on your bureau. I guess we were a lot more tired than I thought."

I looked at my bureau. The black stone bowl was exactly where I had left it. It was still full of Chocolate Frog cards too. Maybe I _had_ dreamed it all.

"Well, come on," Rose said. "Mum and Dad are here already. We're having breakfast with you lot before we shove off."

I followed my cousin down to the basement kitchen where Kreacher had laid out a full English, complete with sausage, kippers, eggs and tomatoes. Everyone else had already finished by the time Rose and I appeared, and Mum greeted us with, "Good morning, sleepy heads! Decided to have a bit of a lie in, did you?"

"Something like that," I mumbled, pulling the sausages toward me.

"Teddy said you went to bed early," said Aunt Hermione, looking worried. "You're not coming down with anything are you? It's not like either of you to sleep so late."

"It's not _that_ late, Mum," Rose said. "What time is it anyway?"

"After ten," said my father.

Rose and I looked at each other, startled. We'd both thought it was much earlier. And we _had_ gone to bed early. It seemed best to change the subject. "Er," I said. "How was the party?"

"Good," said Uncle Ron, then gave my father a sideways glance. "Though stopping by a cemetery on the way home does tend to put a bit of a damper on an evening."

"We went to Godric's Hollow," Mum explained. "Your father wanted to leave some flowers."

"It didn't feel right not to," Dad grumbled, and his eyes took on the same sort of distant look I remembered from the man in my dream. "It's been thirty-five years."

Mum reached over to clasp his hand. He gave her a grateful smile, then looked at me and said, "Al, why are there leaves in your hair?"

"Your trainers are all muddy too!" said Mum, peering under the table. "What on earth have you been doing?"

I looked at my trainers, which were indeed caked with mud, and raked a few autumn leaves from my hair. Leaves that cascaded from a tree where a squirrel chattered as I walked along a forest path toward a bright, warm, welcoming light. Rose stared at me, dumbfounded, while my parents, aunt, and uncle wore identical inquiring frowns. I had a lot of questions, but those would come later. Now was a time for answers and I was the only one who could provide them.

I swallowed hard a few times before saying in a voice that came out a lot squeakier than I'd intended, "Mum, Dad, Aunt Hermione, Uncle Ron. . . Have you ever heard of a crying bowl?"

* * *

_**A/N:**__ This is probably the start of what will turn out to be a longer story, but hopefully it also works as a stand-alone. For background on Albus Potter's dreams read 'Great Expectations.' Happy Halloween!_


	26. Luna Lovegood

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_**Anything you recognise belongs to JK Rowling. We are just having fun playing in her world.**_

**_Please read and review._**

A Muggle Ghost

_(Luna Lovegood)_

_by _

_TheWordFountain_

Luna Lovegood trod softly on the dewy leaves beneath her feet. Her long dirty-blonde hair was pulled back into a large ponytail and she stopped as a snap echoed around the tall, mossy trees surrounding her.

"What do you think, Luna?" a voice hissed into her ear.

Luna slid her silvery-blue eyes towards her husband, Rolf, but didn't reply.

Luna locked her jaw tightly and took a deep breath through her nose. Chances are it wasn't her mum. _Don't get your hopes up._

Luna took another deep breath and tried to rationalize. Ghosts couldn't make noises.

_But Mum could. Mum could do anything._

"Okay, I think the coast is clear," Rolf breathed as he slouched into a relaxed stand and turned to Luna, who mimicked his actions.

"Do you think we'll get it?" Rolf asked excitedly. Luna could see his eyes darting around in the moonlight as if the sound had given him newfound hope – just like it had for Luna.

"We'll see," Luna whispered softly as she squinted around the forest slowly. To Rolf, her misty eyes probably looked as if she was daydreaming about finally getting the Wrackspurt, but Luna's eyes were actually scrutinizing every inch of the woods around her, looking for one thing in particular: her mum's ghost.

Yes, it made no sense. Yes, her mum had never been in this Muggle area. That didn't mean anything though. Her mum was always with her. Maybe this Deathday would be the day. Maybe this day she would finally see her mother.

"All right." Rolf gifted Luna with a wide smile. "Let's get moving."

Luna was pulled away from her hopes and she nodded to her husband. Luna moved to the nearest tree and began looking for signs of any magical creature.

Luna moved her slim fingers over the tree, touching the wet moss carefully. She slowly stood as she studied the bark, gathering that the tree was a European ash. As Luna's nimble fingers faltered, she pulled out her wand and muttered a quick spell. Her wand lit, Luna gazed at the small gashes that had been left in the tree about six feet up, seemingly fresh.

"Rolf!" Luna exclaimed hoarsely, practically unable to contain her excitement; her mother had to be here. There was no way her mum wouldn't come to see Luna on her Deathday.

Luna felt a soft smile slip onto her face as Rolf touched the small of her back, whispering, "What'd you find?"

"Look at the cuts in the bark. They don't look like they'd come from any animal that we've ever seen before. See the orange there?" Luna looked at her husband, her face illuminated by the moon, and she sighed.

Rolf nodded, his lips pursed together. "Luna, I don't think that's anything too important…"

Luna ran her hands over the bark once more. She could practically feel her mother there now. It had to be her. What else could it be?

"Rolf, can we just check it out?" Luna asked softly.

"Of course. I could be wrong and it could really be a Wrackspurt." Rolf gazed knowingly at Luna, and she smiled in return. He understood and she hadn't needed to say anything.

"We'll have to check it out in the morning, though, I think," Rolf muttered, turning his eyes towards the moon.

Luna's eyes grew a bit larger in surprise, but she took a deep intake of air and then nodded. It would be too dark to see anything, so even if her mum was here, it would be fruitless.

Rolf stood up and held out his hand for his wife. Luna took it, and when she was upright, began searching in her old school bag. Pulling out a lime green band, she stretched it out to its full length and gave one end to Rolf.

"You go around one end, and I'll go around the other," Rolf muttered.

Taking a last step towards Rolf, she took Rolf's end and tied it to her own, and Rolf stepped back to give her room. A crackle sounded through the woods around them and Luna turned her head around to her husband.

Rolf looked down towards his feet and leaned down, rubbing his hands through the grass and leaves. "Nothing," Rolf muttered curiously.

"We'll find it tomorrow," Luna assured.

Rolf held out his arm, which Luna slipped into, and said, "Let's go back to camp."

Luna breathed out a contented sigh and placed her hand around Rolf's waist.

"You tired?" Rolf asked quietly.

"Not really," Luna breathed mysteriously, keeping her gaze forward instead of looking up at her husband.

Rolf merely squeezed her shoulders slightly and then let go; they had arrived.

Luna swiftly moved towards the table in the middle of the encampment, and lit the three candles with the tip of her wand while Rolf went to the tent that was a few feet away.

"Ah!"

"Rolf?" Luna asked calmly.

"Er – there's a kid – I think," Rolf muttered as he crawled out of the tent.

"A kid – in the tent?"

Rolf nodded wearily and leaned against the table.

Luna only smiled in amusement and opened the flap of the tent where a small blob of white was sleeping at the kitchen table with Rolf's large bag of Beetle Chips.

Luna walked in fearlessly and merely rubbed the back of the white mass.

"Oh!" A girl's voice rose from the white mass and she startled, her small blue eyes peeping through two holes.

Luna pulled out a chair and sat down next to the girl. "You're lost."

The small girl nodded and curled up into the back of the chair, the white sheet now covering her small legs.

Luna studied her in a very relaxed way. She just leaned back into the comfortable chair and put her chin in the palm of her hand, gazing at the scared girl.

The girl squirmed and looked down at the ground. "Sorry for eating your food, but I ate all my candy."

The girl pointed to the floor where a large amount of candy wrappers were lying around an orange pumpkin-looking case.

_Orange._

Luna stood up and slowly walked over to the pile of candy wrappers and stepped on it. A loud crackling sound echoed round the tent and Luna sighed, turning back to the small girl.

_Might as well go home tomorrow._

"What's your name?"

The girl squirmed again and pulled the white sheet off her head.

"Ella," she breathed heavily.

"Is that what you're dressed up as for Halloween?" Luna asked softly, barely nodding to the sheet that Ella had been wearing.

Ella nodded and looked at Luna awkwardly.

"A ghost?" Luna breathed.

Ella nodded again. "I – I got lost in the woods. My friends dared me to come in and see the ghost that supposedly haunts the woods, but I got scared a-and I got lost."

"Wasn't your mum with you?" Luna asked.

_Maybe she doesn't have one._

"My mum said I was old enough to go out on my own now – or at least with my friends. I live in the small village right outside the woods."

Luna nodded. "Rolf and I will take you back tonight. Better get moving."

Ella hopped off the seat slowly and then she pulled back on her sheet and swiveled it around so she could see. Once she had her pumpkin basket in her hand, she followed Luna out the door.

"Rolf?" Luna whispered.

"Yes?" Rolf quavered, looking around with bulging eyes.

"We need to take Ella back home. Do you know the way towards the village?" Luna asked.

"O-oh, yes." Rolf gulped. "Let me just get some – Ah!"

Luna giggled as she watched her fearful husband stand back up after tripping over a tree root. He was so desperately afraid of children.

"Here, we'll use this lamp. Rolf – lead the way." Luna held out the lamp towards him, and Rolf took it with a shaking hand.

As Luna walked through the woods, following her husband and holding Ella's hand, Luna couldn't help but remember the first time that her own mum had let her go out on her own on Halloween. Luna had been nine and she hadn't gone out to get candy, like Muggle children did. Wizarding families usually stayed home and just threw a small party. But Luna had gone out, with her mum's approval, to go frog-hunting – a new sport that her mum had taught her only a week before. Luna hadn't wanted to go at first. She was afraid of being without her mum on a dark night, but her mum said that she would be out soon, and would help her catch frogs.

Luna had left with that happy thought in mind, and she managed to catch the largest frog in the pond.

When she had rushed back to her mum to show her though, she saw an experiment go wrong.

_Her mum had left her._

Luna squeezed Ella's hand softly and smiled down at her.

_Ella's mum was still alive. She had to be._

"Which hou-house do you live in?" Rolf asked Ella.

Ella's face brightened as she realized she was back in town. "Just down this street!" Ella exclaimed, rushing down the sidewalk and pulling Luna along with her.

Luna stumbled as they came to a stop in front of a tall, tumbling house and Ella opened the creaking door.

"Mum!" Ella called into the house.

Luna's heart pounded in her ears, and she stood stock-still on the doorstep of the house. Luna was so scared she could barely shake.

"Mum!" Ella called again, rushing up the stairs that were in front of her.

Luna turned around as she heard Rolf's voice carry over the yard, and she allowed herself to lean against the house in relief. Rolf was talking to a couple – a distraught couple; a couple who had lost their kid.

Luna forced herself to stand up and she called Ella's name into the house. "Your parents are here!"

A thumping ensued as Ella pounded her feet down the stairs and whipped out of the house, down the garden, and into her parents' arms.

Her mum was alive.

Luna breathed a sigh of relief and walked down the garden, slipping under Rolf's shaking arm.

_She was still with her - nothing could tear them apart. _


	27. Remus Lupin

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****

**_Anything you recognise belongs to JK Rowling. We are just having fun playing in her world._**

**_Please read and review._**

**A Halloween Mask**

_(Remus Lupin)_

_by_

_Moscardini2_

_Halloween: _An old Muggle tradition where children dress up as monsters from stories or fairytales, go trick or treating and eat lots of candy. Halloween is celebrated in the wizarding world too, except it celebrates the end of witch burning in Britain.

A night where we can walk around dressed as witches and wizards. Back then it was a way of mocking the Muggles, but now it's just done for fun. But you don't see young witches and wizards walking around at night with their parents anymore. A happy family. It's not safe. Not since Voldemort came back. You can't trust anyone these days. In some ways Halloween makes me feel normal. People dress up as monsters, and I am a monster. Well it makes me feel more normal that usual.

Most of the Order are here tonight, they're all celebrating and playing a load of party games. I was with them earlier, but then Sirius got a little too drunk so I took him away to sober up. I didn't return though. Instead I sit in the old armchair beside the fire, where there's a perfect view of the Muggle street outside. I come here often to think. The activity in the street takes my mind off my own life. But not tonight: tonight it makes it worse. I want to draw away from the chair but I can't, my mind and body both set on the scene outside.

A young kid with a werewolf mask, and his mother walking happily down the street. Far from the real picture but still it saddens me. Tomorrow he will take his mask off. It won't come out for another year. But mine will always be there, I won't be able to take mine off. The small kid laughs and howls towards the sky. A small sad smile creeps upon my face. I wish that the transformation at the end of this month was just a Halloween mask.


	28. Seamus Finnigan

_**Anything you recognise belongs to JK Rowling. We are just having fun playing in her world.**_

**_Please read and review._**

**Happier Halloween **

_(Seamus Finnigan)_

_by_

_McFlyFan101_

The bats had grown bored and flown away, the pumpkins had gone mouldy and turned to dust, students laughing voices died on their lips and the cobwebs were swept away.

All that Halloween was famous for had been forgotten. The festive night had been stripped of all of its luxuries and decorations until all that remained was an ordinary school day. The school seemed empty with all the students who were absent, many in hiding in fear of what would happen to them. Classrooms were almost bare and the tables in the Great Hall were no longer crowded. All four common rooms were secluded and silent; dormitories that used to house five now only catered for two.

The seventh year Gryffindor boys' dorm occupants were used to sleeping alongside four other wizards, now only two slept in its quarters, alongside three empty beds. Seamus Finnigan stumbled into the dorm on that Halloween night clutching a box packed full of traditional Halloween decorations. His roommate Neville Longbottom looked up from his bed and grinned.

"Got it?"

Seamus nodded, "Complete with a pumpkin. And I also managed to get pumpkin juice."

"Brilliant! I've got to say mate, this is without a doubt the best idea you have ever had." Neville cried as he leapt off his bed to help Seamus with the decorations.

"Yeah and the one that will get us into the most trouble if we get caught." Seamus smiled.

"True but who says we've got to get caught?" Neville asked hanging a bat from the ceiling.

"True, and anyway," Seamus turned to look at Neville and pointed at one of the bruises on his face, "what's life without a few risks?"

Neville laughed and placed the pumpkin in the centre of the room whilst Seamus got out four goblets and the pumpkin juice.

There was a quiet knock at the door and an owl hooted outside the window.

"That's them, let them in." Seamus told Neville.

Neville went over to the door and opened it quietly and beckoned to the two figures standing outside the room to come in. Ginny and Luna crept in and grinned.

"Got Luna in fine. Nobody noticed her." Ginny sighed happily collapsing into the bed that used to be her brother's.

"Great." Neville let out a sigh of relief.

"See Neville, told you it'd be fine." Seamus grinned.

"Okay. But excuse me for being cautious about these things. We did just sneak a Ravenclaw into the Gryffindor Tower."

"I think I'll stick to being a Ravenclaw. The common room and dorms are much nicer." Luna decided.

"Don't judge all the dorms on theirs. Mine's much nicer." Ginny protested.

Seamus grinned and opened the pumpkin juice and poured it into the goblets and handed them out to his friends.

"Enough chit chat, let's get the night started!" Neville suggested.

"Good idea. Who's for some proper food?" Seamus asked opening a box and pulling out a plate loaded with turkey and vegetables.

"Seamus you're a genius!" Ginny squealed and took a piece of turkey.

Seamus nodded "I try my best Miss Weasley. Now, growing up with six older brothers you must know some ghost stories you could share with us?"

"That I do Mr Finnigan… Let's see….Fred told me this one, it's called The Tell-Tale Heart... _'It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! Yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture — a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees — very gradually — I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever'_." Ginny began.

"Okay you're already scaring me." Neville shuddered. As Ginny continued her story, Seamus, Neville and Luna turned paler and paler.

"'"_Villains!" I shrieked, "Dissemble no more! I admit the deed! — tear up the planks! — Here, here! — It is the beating of his hideous heart_!"'" Ginny concluded her story and grinned at Seamus. "That do you?"

"Uh-huh." Seamus replied quietly.

As the night went on, the four friends continued to tell ghost stories and laugh and joke. At last Seamus picked up his goblet "Let's end the night with a toast." The other three followed his example and raised their goblets. "Here's to absent friends, Dean, Harry, Ron and Hermione, wherever they are, and anyone else absent." Seamus proposed "And to a happier Halloween next year!"

"Cheers!"

* * *

 _(A/N The ghost story is an extract from _**_The Tell-Tale Heart_**_ by Edgar Allen Poe, and I claim no copyright of the story.)_


	29. Oliver Wood

**__****Anything you recognise belongs to JK Rowling. We are just having fun playing in her world.**

**_Please read and review._**

**Happy Halloween**

_(Oliver Wood)_

_by_

_Sandshrew 777_

It was in all the papers, not just the _Daily Prophet_. But when he read the article, he knew he needed answers, so he fire-called the first Gryffindors he could think of: the twins. George answered. He was surprisingly serious - or perhaps not surprisingly, perhaps even twins could feel grief - and told Oliver what he needed to know: that it really did happen, that Harry wasn't lying, that You-Know-Who was back.

That Cedric - his Cedric - was dead. No more. No more "chance meetings" in Hogsmeade. No more sneaking into the Castle to be with him. No more shirking off practices to watch him in the Tasks.

He'd gotten into so much trouble for that. He'd been neglecting practices to find time with Cedric that in May his coach laid down an ultimatum: come to every practice and game from here on out, or get kicked off the team. So he went, stealing as much time as he could from the rest of his life to spend with Cedric - or as much time as he had, being involved in the Tasks. He always apologized for not being there more often, apologized for graduating a year before Cedric, apologized for circumstances he couldn't control and for not going to be able to be there for the Third Task.

He was just a reserve player, nobody important, he'd always say. Cedric would always tell him to stop saying that, that he was somebody important, to look at all the championships Gryffindor had won with him on the team. And of course he understood that Oliver couldn't afford to lose his job, lose the one thing he was good at.

Well, he was good at something else, too, Cedric always said, but now he wasn't going to get to do that ever again. He just couldn't imagine it.

He still can't, halfway through his fifth pint in some cloudy pub in Muggle London somewhere - he didn't know where the Bus had let him off, didn't really care, just knew he needed to go somewhere to drink.

It all still feels like some horrible, horrible trick, some prank the twins'd pull. On days like this - on Halloween, Halloween that Cedric had loved, because it was a time to be somebody else for a change, someone who wasn't a Triwizard Champion, someone who wasn't Cedric on the surface but was underneath the costume - Oliver couldn't, wouldn't take it.

It was days like these that made Cedric so happy - Christmas, Quidditch matches, Boxing Day, his birthday, Easter, St. Patrick's Day, Oliver's birthday, St. David's Day, Guy Fawkes Day. Halloween.

And it was days like these that Oliver came to the pub. Drinking to forget, he drinks to remember.

_"C'mon, Ollie, it's Halloween. You can't study on Halloween."_

_"No, Ced."_

_"Just for a little bit? Ten minutes, tops. C'mon, Ollie! Please?"_

_It was those damned eyes that kept making him give in. Give in to that whim, to that voice whispering from somewhere below his brain to just lean in and kiss him for all you're worth even though you've got N.E.W.T.s to study for. _

_He bit his lip for a moment longer, then relinquished it and everything to those eyes, those eyes slowly darkening and shutting. Leaned in on the couch of the Prefects' Study, slipping his left arm behind to grip that beautiful ass, his right flung up to entangle itself into that blond hair he'd let go wild. Tilted just to the right and kissed him. Light at first, just lips brushing lips, as if they were trying to remember how this all went. Then a little deeper, mouths pouring into one another, Oliver's tongue lightly pressing entrance into his lover, ready to begin the slow dance of seduction._

_And dance they did. Tongues meeting in a frenzied fury, the light taste of peppermint wrapping itself around Oliver's tongue. But just as the music of their souls began to sing, Oliver pulled back. Cedric moaned, eyes opening to half-mast, looking for all the world like he'd been slipped a Lust Potion. His potion was Oliver, attentive Oliver who had already anticipated his lover's discontent and suckled on Cedric's sweet spot on the right side of his beck. Cedric mewled in pleasure, almost purring in delight as Oliver made his skin jump and slide._  
_Oliver moved up Cedric's jawline, up to the tender earlobe, nipping lightly, marking his lover for his own._

_"You're so fucking hot, Ced. And you're mine," he whispered. _

_Cedric shivered and moaned again, falling back into the couch cushions as Oliver pushed him slowly, sensually back. They met again to war with their mouths, Oliver's hands busily unbuttoning Cedric's shirt, letting himself have a peek at what he was about to bring to an arching, screaming pleasure. The shirt slid off, revealing those bronzed, broad shoulders. Oliver could not resist running his left hand up and down the now bare back, reveling at the muscle he found with each caress._

_He broke again from Cedric's mouth and again Cedric moaned his displeasure. Again Oliver silenced him, this time by sliding his body down so he could lick the nipples of his lover, slowly bringing them to taut arousal. Cedric moaned at the first, deeper with the second, but when Oliver began to suck one lightly, he couldn't restrain the fiery groan any longer._

_With the grace and ferocity of a lover ready to return the favor, Cedric grabbed Oliver's chin, lifted it, and entrapped that enthralling mouth with his own, his tongue thrusting in without preamble. Here Oliver finally moaned; here he had uncovered his lover's passion fully. _  
_Cedric's submissiveness was gone in an instant. His fingers had Oliver's shirt undone and up over his head within seconds - and as it went flying, Cedric pushed Oliver up and back onto the opposite end of the couch so that he was lying atop him, staring directly into the love-fogged eyes of his lover._

_"You ready?" Cedric asked, his tenor husky._

"You ready?" the woman asks, snapping her gum. Oliver glances up into the unfocused face of his sister, Karalyn. He nods and she helps him to his unsteady feet, leading him out of the pub, setting some money on the counter with a nod to the bartender, helping him into the street.

He knows she knows why he's here, and he knows she used the family clock and a little of their Mum's skill with Divination to find him. He knows that he's going to vomit just as she Side-Along Disapparates him back to their childhood home, and he promptly does into the begonias his Mum never bothers to weed.

He knows she'll lead him past Mum's concerned eyes to his room, his childhood room left untouched since last week, when it was his and Cedric's anniversary. He knows he'll break down and she'll hold him, rocking him slowly, silently, as always.

He knows she knows she can't be the one he wants so desperately to be there, but she can be the one he needs right now, and so she is.  
So they sit, Oliver mourning, Karalyn rocking, neither bothering to speak the useless words that grief slings carelessly to whomever will listen. Slowly, the sobs subside.

Karalyn gives him a final hug and tucks him in, just like Ced does after they make love. She kisses him on the forehead, just above where Ced's tender lips always touched him, gently, just before they drifted off together. She doesn't wish him a useless good night, just as Ced never does, because he knows they've already had one because they're together.

The door shuts gently. Oliver watches the moonlit window for a glimpse of his Seeker, hopes without shame for him to fly up on his broom and say that it was all staged, that it never happened, that he was okay and Harry was mistaken and You-Know-Who's still gone.

But he has practice tomorrow. He must Keep for a whole game, and he must sleep. He must sleep because in his sleep he has a chance to see Cedric again, to talk with him again, but never to hold him - just when he reaches for him, the dream always ends and he always wakes up. Alone.

So tonight, as usual, just before he succumbs to the alcohol's luring promises of dreams, he pretends to smell peppermint wafting in from the open window.

And this time, just before the darkness takes him, just before his vision dies, just before it all, he smells -


	30. Molly Weasley

**__****Anything you recognise belongs to JK Rowling. We are just having fun playing in her world.**

**_Please read and review._**

**Last Year**

_(Molly Weasley)_

_by_

_Bad Mum_

_Hallowe'en 1981_

If she doesn't think about last year, she will get through this, she will be fine.

(She managed yesterday. She got through her birthday alright. Until the evening, when the flowers arrived. Dorcas – bless her heart – remembered that Gideon and Fabian used to send her daisies every year for her birthday, and she sent a huge bouquet of them. Molly burst into tears all over the cake the boys had decorated.)

But today it will be different. She will not cry today. Hallowe'en is a happy time, a time for celebration. Gideon and Fabian wouldn't want…

No, don't go there. Don't think about it. Don't think about _them_. Not today. Not tonight.

She wipes her eyes on the trailing edge of Ginny's shawl, and smiles at Ronnie's efforts to get out of the playpen. Going by previous experience, it will be another month or so before he manages it. He doesn't have the twins' determination, or Charlie's sheer obstinacy. But he will do it earlier than either Bill or Percy. Percy always stayed where he was put ("such a good baby"), and Bill didn't have the incentive of older brothers to try to keep up with.

The boys and Arthur are out in the paddock, finishing off the bonfire. They always have a bonfire at Hallowe'en. It was a Prewett family tradition, and Arthur has been happy enough to go along with it. Particularly as his brothers-in-law were more than enthusiastic about building the bonfire and setting off the fireworks.

But this year, Arthur has to do it. They could do something different, have a more traditional wizarding Halloween with a meal and stories round the kitchen fire, but the older boys at least would feel that was a let-down.

Gideon and Fabian would never let their nephews down.

(Except they had. They had _died_.)

So it is Arthur who is labouring in the Paddock, building a bonfire, with Bill and Charlie and Percy helping, and (almost certainly) Fred and George hindering. Molly puts the sleeping baby down in the cradle, and goes to the pantry to check that everything is ready.

Potatoes to bake in the embers of the fire (with a bit of magical help if they take too long, and boyish appetites won't wait). Toffee. Popcorn. Sausages. Apples for bobbing. (A Muggle tradition that Arthur found in an old book he picked up Godric-knows-where. The boys love it. Any excuse to get wet without getting told off.) Plates. Cups. Pumpkin juice for the boys. Cider for her and Arthur and… Cider for her and Arthur.

Everything is ready.

There are voices in the yard, and Ginny begins to stir and whimper. Molly makes a dive for the cradle, but Charlie bangs the door open before she can get there, and Ginny begins to cry. Molly picks her up and holds her close.

"Charlie! How many times?"

Charlie looks guilty. "Sorry, Mum. I forgot…"

"Again." But Molly finds she does not have the energy to lecture this evening. Arthur looks at her sympathetically, and comes across the kitchen to kiss her. He knows how she is feeling.

But the boys will not wait.

"Are we going?" Bill demands, while the twins are already heading for the bowl of popcorn with identical wicked grins on their faces. Molly frees herself from Arthur's embrace, and intercepts them fast.

"Fred! George! Don't touch, or you won't have any later. Carry these." She thrusts a pile of plates (unbreakable) at one twin and some spoons and forks at the other. They scowl, but for once don't protest. Molly distributes the food amongst the other boys, and lifts Ronnie out of the playpen and puts him into the huge double pushchair next to Ginny, who is sleeping again – at least for now.

(Last year it was the twins in the pushchair, and Fabian carried baby Ronnie…)

"Have you all got hats and scarves and gloves?"

"Yes, Mum!" comes in a chorus. She does not know why she asks. By the time they get to the Paddock, someone will be complaining he is cold, and admitting he forgot something vital.

She pushes the pushchair, and Arthur walks beside her, carrying the bag of potatoes and the sausages. Bill and Charlie have the bag of apples between them; Percy has the popcorn. (He is sneaking pieces from the bowl, believing his mother doesn't realise. She doesn't have the heart to chide him for it.) Arthur is levitating the rest of the food in front of him.

(Last year, Gideon rigged up a trolley from old wood he had scrounged from a friend to carry everything. It had no wheels, but he made it fly ahead of them, without one spill or breakage.)

They make it to the paddock with only one minor mishap – Bill tripping over and sending the bag of apples tumbling everywhere, to Charlie's disgust. ("That was your fault, not mine, you idiot! Good thing you aren't going to be here next Hallowe'en!") Arthur and the boys pick up the scattered apples, while Molly tends to Bill's cut knees. He is biting his lip and blinking rapidly, and Molly knows it is the realisation that next year he will not be here, that he will be at the Hallowe'en feast at Hogwarts, that is making him cry, not the minor injury. Nearly-eleven-year-olds don't cry about scraped knees. Molly kisses the top of his head before releasing him and letting him scramble to his feet.

(Last year, Percy fell down, and Gideon piggybacked him the rest of the way to the paddock.)

They make it eventually, pile the food on the old trestle table Arthur has set up under a tree, and Arthur uses his wand to light the bonfire. The boys run and yell and chase each other, and Molly tries hard not to think about the races Gid and Fabe organised last year.

"Are we eating yet? I'm starving." Charlie of course, though Bill and Percy aren't far behind him. The twins seem to have disappeared… Arthur runs them to earth digging a hole under the oldest tree in the paddock, gloriously muddy and totally unrepentant. ("We thought there might be some treasure there.")

Molly uses her wand to fill the old bathtub with water for apple bobbing to keep the boys busy while she finishes off the food. They all get very wet, and George manages somehow to fall in, being hauled out by Bill and grinning triumphantly. Fred looks as if he wishes he'd thought of it first.

Arthur waves his wand to dry everyone's soaking clothes, and they all sit under the tree to eat. There is silence for a few minutes, while they all concentrate on the really important matter in hand.

(Last year Fabian regaled them with a story about a wizard a dragon and a ghost on a trek through the Australian Outback while they ate. Molly was sure he was making it up as he went along, but it was an impressive story.)

The silence is broken by Ginny wailing, and Charlie and Fred disputing ownership of the last sausage.

Percy raises his voice above the squabble. "I wish Uncle Fabian and Uncle Gideon were here."

There is a sudden silence, and Molly catches both Arthur and Bill looking at her warily, obviously worried she is about to burst into tears.

She manages to smile. "They'd be happy we're having a good time," she says firmly. "Is it time for the fireworks?"

She catches Arthur's worried look. She knows he thinks he cannot live up to Gideon and Fabian's standards. But he pulls himself to his feet, smiling, and pulling out his wand. "Ready, boys?"

The fireworks may not be quite up to those of previous years, but they are pretty good. The boys "ooh" and "aahh" in all the right places, and seem happy enough. Molly hopes no one will see her wiping her eyes on Ronnie's scarf as she holds the now sleeping toddler against her.

(Last year, Fred fell asleep in Gideon's arms, and had the world's worst tantrum afterwards at having missed the fireworks.)

Finally, the last rocket goes up, and Arthur declares it is bedtime, ignoring the protests from the boys. Fred and George are having a hard time keeping their eyes open, and Percy is not a lot better. Arthur puts out the fire with his wand, and loads the twins into the pushchair, giving Ginny to Bill to carry (with a stern injunction not to fall over again) and taking Ronnie from Molly's arms. They trail back to the house, and Arthur shoos the boys up the stairs to bed, leaving Molly in the kitchen feeding Ginny, who has woken up and is declaring her woes to the world.

When he comes back downstairs, when the boys are finally all in bed, Molly is holding her daughter close, her face streaked with tears. Arthur stands in the kitchen doorway for a full minute watching her before she looks up and realises he is there. She tries to smile, and to say something, but it comes out as a sob.

"Oh, Arthur…"

He crosses the kitchen in two long strides, and kneels beside her chair, holding her close, the now sleeping baby between them.

"It was a good evening, Moll. They'd be proud of you."

He does not need to specify who "they" are. Molly knows.

(Last year, the four of them sat up till three in the morning drinking cider and making plans for what they'd do when the war was finally over. Right now, Molly cannot imagine that day ever coming.)


	31. Anthony Goldstein

****

**_Anything you recognise belongs to JK Rowling. We are just having fun playing in her world._**

**_Please read and review._**

**The October After**

_(Anthony Goldstein)_

_by_

_WhiskeyTangoFoxtrot_

_A/N: This can be read with my Anthony Goldstein and Lavender Brown two-part romance, "Her First and Her Last"._

He watches her before he approaches her.

It is his way.

Anthony Goldstein has never been good with words. Sometimes, he has to think about what he wants to say and how to say it. For although Lavender Brown has gotten better since the Battle, today might prove difficult for her.

He starts walking. He watches leaves, dried and brown, swirl around her feet in the cold October breeze. The chilly gust forces her to pull her thick robes close to her body. Anthony notices, with a pang in his heart, that she presses her hood tight to her face.

She makes sure that it completely covers the left side of her head.

He is close to reaching her—

"_ROW_-_RR_!"

"Oops," he says to a young boy, no more than eight, dressed innocently as a werewolf. The boy's friends giggle and laugh and they're in costume and makeup. One looks like a vampire, another a goblin. Anthony laughs at them and he looks up, and his smile falls.

Lavender has noticed him — and the little werewolf.

He takes his glasses off and wipes them with his sleeve as he weaves in between the groups of costumed children clamoring for sweets and goodies from adults.

He reaches her and puts his glasses back on. He smiles, genuinely, as he always does when he sees her, but inside he knows she is still not whole. She is still not well.

"Hey there." He places a hand on her back, gentle with his touch. She continues to watch the children, her hand pressed now to her hood, keeping it from blowing away in the wind.

Anthony leans forward to peck her on her cheek, and his hand tries to brush strands of her blonde hair as it flies into her face. But she jumps back as if his touch shocks her and she turns her face further away from him.

"Don't, Tony."

"Lav—"

"_No,_" she whispers. Anthony can hear her sniff.

He watches her breathe and he gathers up his own courage. He places a hand on her back and moves over to her left side, crooking a finger under the fabric of her hood.

"Lavender. Come on." He leans closer, intending to give her a peck on the cheek or perhaps a gentle kiss on the corner of her mouth.

But as he approaches, he sees where she is looking.

Her eyes follow the little werewolf as he jumps and growls and wrestles his friends to the ground. Her left hand bats his away.

"Is it wrong that I want to shake him?"

Anthony winces and inhales through puckered lips. "No, it's not wrong."

"He should _know_." Lavender swallows as she collects her thoughts. "H-he should kn-know that those things . . . those things don't act like puppies or cute little dogs."

She presses her hand to her mouth, and shuts her eyes. Anthony can see the trails of tears running down her cheeks, bending and curving as they run along her scars.

Lavender's breath halts and she wipes her face, taking in big sobs as she does so.

"Th-they claw, Anthony." She turns and looks at him with shiny, moist eyes. "They rip and eat flesh. They smell like _blood_."

He shuts his eyes. His arm unfurls behind her, grasping her around her shoulders and pulling her towards him.

Lavender lets her body shake in his embrace; she lets her face fall forward and she presses against his chest.

"I can still smell him." She trembles as she cries and Anthony hugs her, hoping his arms can hold her together. "Sometimes I wake up screaming because I can f-feel his teeth on my neck, his jaws on my face. I ca- . . . can see his fur and it's covered with m-my blood—"

She cries hard into his chest. Anthony rocks her band and forth gently. Over her head, he sees the little werewolf running up to his mother, reaching out for more candy.

"A-and h-he's growling . . . r-roar-_roaring_," she says taking in more breaths. "Oh _Godric_!" Her voice is muffled as she is crying into his chest. "Oh Godric . . . oh Godric. . . ."

He takes a breath. "L-Lav?" He speaks with a voice that breaks a little bit. "Lavender," he says again with a little more strength, "what do you feel? Right now?"

Lavender's sobs start to wane. "Th-the air. The fall air?"

Anthony nods and lets his lips touch the crown of her head. "What else?"

She gulps and takes in breaths softly through her nose. "I smell leaves."

He looks down at her and sees her eyes are shut, fluttering as a gust sweeps by them again. "Leaves. Okay, good. What else?"

This time, she hums quietly from the back of her throat and he can feel her shoulders hitch underneath his arms. "You. I can smell you."

Anthony smiles and lets a chuckle escape from him. "Hope I smell all right."

She nods and she tightens her hold around him, squeezing him with her right arm.

"You smell like soap, and," she brings her head up, her hood still pressed against the left side of her face, "spice."

"And everything nice?" He cocks his eyebrow at her.

Finally, she smiles at him. He can see that she is still sad, but she is letting herself smiles and that makes him hopeful that he is helping her.

"_Everything_," she murmurs. "There is nothing bad about you, Anthony Goldstein." Her hood falls away. "Absolutely nothing."

He cups her left cheek, still rough and scarred. There are still dark patches that have grown into webs that stretch across her cheek, but she has healed — physically, if not emotionally.

Not completely at least.

"Look at me, Lavender."

She does, even as her grip on his robes tightens. He doesn't let her get away with turning away from him. Sometimes she hates him for not letting her hide. Other times, she turns her mouth upward. Anthony knows that, in those moments, she is happy because someone is looking at her without reservation and without fear.

"I am all that's here with you. Ignore the little monsters around us. And don't think," he kisses her on the tip of her nose, "about the bigger ones from the past."

He pulls her towards him. She falls into his body, her arms tight around his chest.

"It may be Halloween, but there's nothing to fear anymore, is there?"

She is no longer crying, although her face is still wet. She looks at him and nods with a smile wider than before.

He lowers his head to kiss her properly.

"Happy Halloween then."

He answers not with words but with his lips.


	32. Sirius Black

**_Anything you recognise belongs to JK Rowling, apart from the song lyrics in this piece which belong to Gordon Sumner. _**

******_Please read and review._**

**Ten Years**

_(Sirius Black)_

_by_

_respitechristopher_

It's a special night for you tonight, isn't it, Sirius? Ten years ago this very night, Godric's Hollow. You and your old pal Wormtail.

(_Ten Dementors. Like candles on a birthday cake. They've not missed a trick tonight_)

He's still out there, you know. Scurried right off; faked his death. Probably stowed away on a cruise ship bound for Mallorca. He's a free man, enjoying the kind of life you'd always hoped for. He has your life, Sirius: sunshine, beaches, Spanish witches, discotheques… He's living La Dolce Vita, while you're huddled up next to mildewed stones in a dank cell in the North Sea. Little Peter Pettigrew, or

"Hey there, Little-Peter," you called out in a singsong voice. He whipped his head around to glare at you.

"I told you to stop calling me that, Sirius. I thought you said you'd stop." Oh, didn't you laugh heartily at that…

"I can stop calling you that whenever I want to," you boasted. Then again, did you ever really not boast when you talked? "I think I'll stop tomorrow. What do you think, James? Should we stop talking about Little-Peter tomorrow?"

When James laughed at that, he was laughing with you. But the James Potter you knew – the one you condemned to death – would he have taken advantage of a friend's insecurities like that? Do you see Peter's eyes, Sirius? Do you see them pleading with you to leave him be? Had you broken him already by then?

(_That was first year. We grew out of it. I had stopped calling him that by Christmas of that year_.)

Of course you did, Sirius.

"Ooh, Peter," you said with that ever-present sneer in your voice, "No date for the Marauders' first Hogsmeade trip. Are you sure you asked every third-year in Hufflepuff? What about Barksdale? I bet you didn't ask Barksdale. She'd probably let you have a go if you brought her to Honeydukes."

"Sirius," he whispered. Of course, only someone as crass as you would have shouted that in public. "She's got to be fifteen stone! Don't you think I could pull better than that?"

Good question, wasn't it?

"Oh, poor Wormy. Even Remus's gotten lucky. It's going to be on your tombstone, isn't it? Here lies Wormtail, the last Marauder Virgin!" The way he'd just hang his head when you laid into him, it was almost as if he believed it. Wonder if he remembers that tonight while he's pinning some Señorita's ankles behind her ears. Meanwhile you can't even get it up long enough to beat off, can you?

"Hey Wormtail, if you like 'em that young, I'll introduce you to my baby cousin." The jaunty wink always made the insult that much sweeter, don't you think?

She was seven the last time you saw her. Not that you remembered her birthday – no, Sirius Black couldn't be arsed to remember a seven-year-old girl's birthday. You can set your mind at ease though, Sirius. She hates you now, just like everyone else in Britain. So don't bother with the card for her eighteenth. She's at Auror School, just so that she can personally prune the rotten branch that is Sirius Black from her family tree.

(_Andy's girl will be getting out of Hogwarts this year. Wonder if she met Harry. Wonder if Harry got to go to Hogwarts_.)

Oh, what the good godfather. Not even able to watch your best friends' son – your own godson – go off to Hogwarts for the first time. That is, if he was able to survive without his parents with no godfather to look after him. Of course, the same godfather that allowed him to crash a toy broom at a year old, the same godfather for whom babysitting was such a chore when you had better things to do.

(_We didn't feel safe leaving him with Remus, we thought… we thought…_)

Your own, sweet Remus. Never hurt a soul in his life, and you picked him for a traitor. You couldn't even come right out and be honest about it. Look at his eyes when you gave him that lame excuse:

"Er, Lily says he goes to sleep easier if a dog is lying next to him."

Remus knew he was still in the crib, didn't he? He hadn't seen Harry in months, and James and Lily were barely talking to him. But you – he thought he could trust you.

"Sirius, you really don't think it's me, do you?"

"No, mate." You laughed through your lie, then softened up ever-so cynically to deliver your lines. "I know you. I know your heart, and you're a Marauder."

He thought he knew your heart, too. He didn't know you'd moved on by then though, did he? He didn't know you'd had someone else in your bed just the night before. But he did know that you couldn't look him in the eyes that whole conversation.

"Sirius, what aren't you telling me?" He grabbed your hands, pleading with you. "Don't lie to me, Sirius – not after all this time."

But you couldn't stand to look at him. Couldn't muster the courage to look him in the eyes the last time you'd ever see him. Who do you think ran with him during last week's full moon?

(_Hopefully he's found someone better_)

He's found someone who isn't you. He can't stand the thought of you. He wants to wash the stain of you from his body just as he's flushed you from his heart. Why else wouldn't he have been 'round to see you, Sirius? Even if you were to get out of here, who would there be? Who would believe you after all this?

You just had to have that fourth flagon of Old Ogden's that night, didn't you? Of course – it was Halloween, and he was a chaser for Falmouth. Or was it Ballycastle? Didn't much matter to you at the time, did it? But he was important enough for you to convince James and Lily not to have you as the secret-keeper. You couldn't be bothered to personally protect them. Not from Voldemort, and not from the man you drove to him.

_(We did it to protect them. We changed because I was the logical choice!)_

"Every little thing he does is magic, everything I do just turns me on…"

Aren't you a sight when you're carousing? You'd tied one on pretty tight by the time 9 o'clock rolled around, just like every other self-obsessed pouf in the place. Damn near splinched yourself getting back to Godric's Hollow.

"Even though my life before was tragic…"

Voldemort had reached their house by this time. You were dancing on the table, and James and Lily were being butchered by the Dark Lord. What kinds of horrors did Lily see that night? Was she raped in front of her infant son?

_(At least it didn't look as though she'd been violated by them. At least it wasn't a revel.)_

Small comfort, isn't it? She'd only known the Wizarding world for ten years, and there she was, killed by its prejudices. Killed by a man funded by your own fortune, your own family. How much blood is on your name, Black? How many people did your father kill in the name of purity? How did it feel to see that mark on Regulus, your own brother?

_(And Regulus. They'd killed Regulus, too.)_

"Sirius, I'm done with them. You're going to have to hide me. Please, they're already looking for me."

"Piss off, Death Eater."

"Sirius, please. Whatever we've been through, we're brothers, I'm – "

"I said, fuck off! I'm no brother of yours; you took me off the family tree yourself."

My, my. Did your parents teach you that gesture? Or that language? Certainly they taught you to look after your younger brother.

_(He's gone. Mum's gone, died while I was in here. Dad didn't want me at his funeral. Cissy's with that fool Malfoy. Andy's convinced I'm a Death-Eater. Bella's screams keep me up nights. There's no one. I've stuffed it with Remus, James is dead, Peter's escaped. There's no one.)_

There was Harry though, wasn't there. You got there; sobered up pretty quickly when you saw the house in ruins. And you picked up your godson. Cold, scared, orphaned… You picked him up, and then put him down to face Peter. Remember "Little-Peter"? He wasn't that little that night, was he?

"Wormy – Peter! What did you do?" you shouted into the darkness. Pity no one heard this, isn't it?

"The Dark Lord, Sirius. He protected me. He wanted me around. He was my friend."

"James was your friend, Peter. Lily was your friend. What in blazes did you do?"

And it was then, wasn't it? While you were monologuing. He cut off his hand, cauterized it, blasted a hole into the muggle street, transformed and scampered off. And those twenty muggles he killed, did you even know their names? Did it even matter to you at that point? Can you see their parents, their children crying over them when you sleep, Sirius?

_(Like Harry.)_

By the time the Aurors arrived, you'd forgotten all about Harry. Cold, scared, orphaned Harry. Might they have believed your story if he were in your arms when they found you? Does it matter? What would they have done in a trial, anyway?

**You** had James switch secret-keepers so you could keep a _date_. **You** goaded Peter into betrayal. **You** tossed away your family. **You** thought your own Moony was the spy. You belong here, Sirius. They'd have put you here anyway.

And it's not as though anyone's noticed. Where do you think they all are tonight? Celebrating Halloween? Celebrating ten years without Voldemort; without you? Where's Remus -- who's he with? Where's Peter?

He's still out there, you know. Scurried right off; faked his death. Probably stowed away on a cruise ship bound for Mallorca.


	33. Charlie Weasley

****

**_Anything you recognise belongs to JK Rowling. We are just having fun playing in her world._**

**_Please read and review._**

**Cursed**

_(Charlie Weasley)_

_by_

_Elledreamer_

He'd enjoyed every second of it. Working like this was everything he'd ever dreamed of and more. He'd never imagined that _he_ of all people would be in a place like Romania, working with dragons. And it was amazing.

But today, Charlie felt different. It was the same as any other day: get up early; check the eggs; prepare the food mixes; write up the reports; spend two hours trekking from place to place doing the menial jobs that he had to do because of his lower rank yet loved. But today, the jobs didn't hold the same excitement, the same fervor, the same sparkle that they usually did. Today was different. Today was the 31st October.

* * *

It was a well-known fact, amongst those who knew him well, that Charlie Weasley hated Halloween. As far as he was concerned, it was worse than exams, trips to the Mediwitch and funerals put together.

It had been OK when he had been younger. His mum had always cooked a huge dinner (his dad used to say she was trying to out-cook the Hogwarts house elves) and they'd all been allowed to have loads of fun. They were allowed to get away with anything (the twins _mostly_ anything), and it had always been a chance for the whole family to spend time together, relaxing.

And Charlie had loved that. It had usually been one of the few occasions that he got on with all of his brothers at the same time. They'd take turns making up silly games like 'Ghost Broom Ride' and 'Hunt the Hippogriff in the Dark.' One year the twins had enjoyed smashing a collection of pumpkins their father had brought home from work to pulp with their broomsticks (that had been one of the things that they _hadn't_ got away with).

They'd tell ghost stories, too. Making up grizzly tales of cursed Inferi and nasty apparation deaths. They'd always included Ron and Ginny too (even though they were always a bit young really). It had been great, and Charlie had loved Halloween. But then he went to Hogwarts. And everything changed.

He had been extremely excited in his first year, for Halloween. Bill had told him about the gigantic feast Hogwarts always prepared, and the decorations and spells that supplemented the feast. He had also told him about the great parties each house usually had. So Charlie had been all set to have a great time with his friends, until Errol had come blundering in, not two hours before the feast was about to begin with a letter addressed to both him and Bill.

Charlie had never made it to his first Halloween Feast. He and Bill had spent the night in the deserted Gryffindor tower, each deep in their own thoughts and each trying not to cry in front of each other. Errol had brought news of the death of their Uncle Bertie, their dad's brother, and a person both Bill and Charlie had liked. He'd always come across as slightly crazy, but they'd always had a laugh when he visited, and he'd always bring them all some sort of unusual present from one of his many journeys. After receiving the letter, Charlie had gone right off the idea of celebrating Halloween. It just didn't seem right.

In his second year, Charlie was slightly more dubious about Halloween. Having missed the celebrations the year previously, he was unsure of what to expect, but, as the day approached, his friends had begun their usual fantasising about what food would be on offer, and soon, Charlie had been dragged into the excitement too, and, once again had been as excited as the others at the prospect of food and a party.

But on the morning of the thirty-first, Charlie had awoken to a horrible stomach ache and a pounding headache, feeling truly awful. Thirty minutes later a visiting Bill had morosely told him of the stomach bug that had been sweeping through Hogwarts. Now Charlie had it.

He'd spent the entire day in bed, a bucket on the floor beside him, drifting in and out of what sleep he could get and throwing up every hour. It had been one of the worst days in Charlie's school career so far, coming in a close second next to last Halloween. It got even worse when the rest of his dorm-mates went off to the feast, casting him guilty and sympathetic glances as they slipped out of the door, trying to hide the excitement on their faces. Charlie merely lay in the silence by himself; trying not to think of all the food his friends would be eating (mainly because the thought of it made him feel sick again, and partly because he didn't want to imagine what he was missing). Bill had come back from the feast early to visit him, but by then, Charlie was utterly miserable, and had cast his brother away pretty quickly, delving under his blankets behind his curtains, and trying to block out the sounds of his dorm-mates returning, laughing and joking together.

By the time October rolled round in his third year, Charlie hadn't been surprised when he was yet again stopped from going to the feast. A compost fight that day in Herbology had escalated to the point where McGonagall had been less than impressed to have to deal with three muddy, filthy boys in her office and had promptly given them all detention that evening, despite the protests Charlie and his friends had given. They'd spent the evening in McGonagall's draughty classroom, writing out lines until she saw fit to return to them, which hadn't been until well after the feast had ended and McGonagall had spent several hours with the rest of the staff. Charlie's hand had been cramped up for the whole of the following day, and that, compared with the icy stares he received from his fellow Gryffindors for losing a whole fifty points had led him to a simple realisation. Halloween was officially the worst day of the year.

Charlie hadn't been expecting anything better the next year. Bill had laughed at him, telling him how stupid he was, but Charlie knew that it wouldn't be any better than it normally was. He just knew – and he was right.

It had actually been his own attitude to the problem that had caused his absence this time round He'd spent the day in a moody stupor, much to the annoyance of several of his friends who kept telling him how stupid he was being and that he should come down with them later ready to enjoy himself. Charlie, however, hadn't been quite as enthusiastic and had scowled at them all for the rest of the day, not daring to say anything. When it had been time for the feast they had all given up on him and gone anyway. Later, Bill had just rolled his eyes and told Charlie that he only had himself to blame, and that it was his own stupid attitude that was ruining Halloween, not just unfortunate events.

So Charlie had begun to resent Halloween with a passion. He hated the dressing up, and the stories that had once chilled him with excitement when he had been younger now seemed babyish. The decorations were fake and all in all it seemed to be justan excuse to have a pointless party.

Fifth year hadn't been any better. Charlie became the ridicule of several jokes as Halloween approached, so much so that it got to the point that even if he had dared to go to the feast, he wouldn't have had anyone to go with anyway.

By the time he reached his last year at Hogwarts, Charlie had resigned to the fact that Halloween and he just didn't go together. Not anymore, leastways. He'd even tried being optimistic about the whole thing, and had finally made it to the feast (He had gone in his sixth year too, but Charlie didn't even like to think about how that had ended up. Suzy Kirk hadn't spoken to him since then).

His seventh-year feast, however, had been a very muted affair. Surprisingly, nothing had gone wrong, but Charlie had been so full of dread that everything had just seemed a bit – rubbish.

So it was with the same depression that Charlie was looking to this year's Halloween with. He'd tried to ignore the posters and chanting spells that hovered around the offices and workstations, informing everyone about the party that evening, concentrating merely on his work. Watching the others preparing for the party hadn't helped either, and as soon as his shift was over, Charlie apparated back to his flat, muttering that he had work to do in reply to his friends' curious glances.

He threw himself into his work, trying to blot out the squeals of drunken laughter coming from the street below as teenagers toppled around in fairy wings and vampire teeth. As the evening progressed, he found himself becoming so immersed in his work, that when the noise of someone rapping on the door sounded through his room, he almost jumped out of his skin.

"Come in," he called, pushing his chair back from the desk slightly. It was Morgan, fully dressed from head to toe in black with added extras of a small pair of ears on a headband, and a pair of wings on her back. She'd painted the end of her nose black, and mussed her usually blonde hair (now black) up into a crazy frizz. She caught Charlie's expression and laughed lightly.

"I'm a bat! See?" she said, giving him a small twirl. Charlie didn't alter his expression of half disbelief, and half disgust and turned back to his work.

Morgan sighed and sat heavily down on his bed.

"Come on, Charlie. Come to the party! It's really great, honestly. Everyone's dressed up, just like the Muggles do, except it's so much better than one of _their _parties." Charlie turned back towards her with this comment.

"I thought you were Muggle-born?"

"I am," shrugged Morgan, "But I didn't know what I was missing then _did_ I?" she sighed. "Oh, come on, Charlie, don't be such a bore. It really is great. What've you got against it anyway?" Charlie raised his eyebrows.

"You want the entire story?"

Morgan tutted.

"Give me an abridged version then."

So Charlie told her, and by the end, he could tell that Morgan was clearly trying not to laugh.

"Oh, Charlie, you're really going to let that stop you?" Charlie opened his mouth to answer, but Morgan continued. "Look, just forget what happened at Hogwarts. This is different. Nothing's gone wrong yet, has it? Besides," she said grinning, "Think of this as a new start."

Charlie sighed, and glanced from his pile of work, spilling over onto his bed, to Morgan, who sat with wide, pleading eyes… dressed as a bat. He'd always hated Halloween. But maybe it was just at Hogwarts that it had gone wrong? On the other hand, he'd hate to return home later after a disastrous party with the small voice in his head telling him, "I told you so."

So far he was healthy, and in a good mood, and nothing had seemed to go wrong. Unless he got another terrible letter Charlie couldn't honestly see anything going wrong this time. He paused for a minute before making a decision.

"What the hell," he said, turning to Morgan, "I'll come out." Morgan grinned.

"Great! But first, you need something to wear…"

Five hours later, Charlie was back at his flat, stripping off the remnants of the vampire costume Morgan had found for him. The party had indeed been amazing. Everyone had been dressed up, and as well as music there had been Halloween games, both Muggle and magical. Charlie himself had even shown them all how to play some of those he remembered from his childhood. The decorations had been mind blowing, with magical streamers twisting around their heads, pumpkins grinning manically and a charm that meant that every so often a cluster of sweets would fall from the ceiling. And Charlie had loved every last minute of it. He'd had a great time, and nothing had gone wrong…

As he collapsed into bed, outside, an owl soared up to the window, with a letter addressed to 'Charlie Weasley'…


	34. Astoria Greengrass

****

**_Anything you recognise belongs to JK Rowling. We are just having fun playing in her world._**

**_Please read and review._**

**The Hallowe'en Man**

_(AstoriaGreengrass)_

_by_

_Violin Ghost_

Astoria is a pirate.

_She shouts orders to the crew over the wind, fingers an eye patch and twirls her moustache, dances on blood-swabbed decks that rock with the violence of the prancing waves. She is Barbara Gold-Eye, because underneath her tattered patch lies a hard, cruel, unforgiving gaze, a gold ball in an empty socket. She tosses her dirty bandana out to the sea, and laughs in death's face._

Astoria is a princess.

_She glides across the room on silver-shod feet, back straight, chin aloft. Sparkling notes blown from a golden flute coil around her and seem to shine in homage to her beauty—an ethereal dress that floats about her, white pearls nestled in her black hair, rose-red cheeks and dark blue eyes. A prince offers a hand and she consents to take it, and together they dance across a floor inlaid with crystals._

Astoria is a gipsy.

_She is all bright cloths, black hair, and clinking coins. She swishes a violet sash to wild, beautiful music, and entrances all who come near. She frolics and laughs and sings, and a bolder member of the audience flicks a gold coin into a chipped bowl. _

Astoria is a vampire.

_She stalks her victims in the blackest part of night, flitting like a shadow. She is pale and cold and empty, and cares not for the screams of mortals—she sips their blood and dines on their fear, and whirls her black cape as she vanishes into the darkness once more._

Astoria _loves_ Hallowe'en. She dons a disguise every year, and masquerades as an entirely new being—and the best part of it all is that it's make-believe. (She's _glad_ Hallowe'en only happens once a year, no matter how much she loves it, because she wouldn't trade being herself for all the disguises in the world.)

She dances through Hallowe'en and the new characters that come with it, delighting in the charm that novelty brings. There's nothing scary about Hallowe'en at all—it's a holiday of thrills and costumes that can be taken off and put back on a shelf, to lie forgotten and gather dust when November arrives.

_She absolutely _hates_ Draco Malfoy for destroying this idea._

Draco is a myriad of Hallowe'en personas, but they aren't masks—they're _him_. He doesn't wear costumes and discard them—he lives Hallowe'en every day. Sometimes he's a member of the gipsy's audience, distant and contemptuously admiring; at others he's a member of her crew, willing and obedient, hale and hearty, mischievous and cheeky and happy-hearted; sometimes he's her prince, elegant and charming; and sometimes, most chillingly of all, he's cold and careless and he positively _enjoys_ fear, just like a vampire.

It's at times like those when Astoria thinks that Hallowe'en might be frightening, after all.

She's waiting for him in a dark corridor of the Malfoy mansion, glowering at the line of cold, grey Malfoy eyes scrutinising her from their portraits. He had forgotten his cloak when he came to pick her up for a Hallowe'en dinner out, and she's beginning to consider the idea of marching straight back home to spend Hallowe'en on her own—something she's never done—because the eyes staring her down remind her too much—too much—of Draco as a vampire.

"I'm here."

The quiet voice startles her in the process of glaring down an ancestor of his with a particularly malevolent shine in his eye. She turns quickly, and he's eyeing her with his patented sardonic smile.

"You took your time," she answers, though, in actuality, only a few minutes have passed since he entered his bedroom.

Silently, he offers her an arm, and she takes it. _The prince_.

They disappear in a flurry of expensive lace and dark cloth, and materialise in Hogsmeade. She raises an eyebrow, and he shrugs. "Italiani's, I was thinking?"

She nods her consent, and they begin their desultory stroll towards the pricey restaurant, Astoria stumbling along the cobbled lane in her stilettos. He notices and chuckles unkindly. She would have glared, but she simply doesn't have the energy anymore.

_The gipsy's contemptuous admirer._

The silence hanging between them is uncharacteristically uncomfortable, and Astoria—never one for long silences—promptly shatters it by saying, "So, who are you?"

He doesn't bother raising his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"It's Hallowe'en, isn't it?" she answers. "Who _are_ you, tonight?" The innocent question she had simply meant as a warm, familiar topic of conversation suddenly echoes forlornly in her head.

_Who _are_ you, tonight?_

_Who_ are_ you, tonight?_

_Who _are_ you, tonight?_

After a laden silence, he answers quietly. "I don't know," he says, and Astoria is ready to laugh, to revel in the irony that seems intent on smothering her today. It's the gloominess of the holiday, maybe, or perhaps Astoria's own weariness following a long day—whatever it is, her thoughts are strange and sad tonight.

"And who are _you_?" he unceremoniously interrupts her thoughts.

She sighs and, deciding she might as well take the irony surrounding her and wring it dry, says, "Whoever you want me to be, Draco."

"Hmm." His smile takes on a decidedly roguish cast (_the pirate_), and she realises the hundred, no, the _million_ little sullied meanings men could twist from that heartfelt phrase. Hot, molten, righteous anger bubbles within her quite suddenly—for him to take her tenderly-meant declaration and—

"How's your father, Draco?" It's an underhanded move—she knows quite well just how sound (or rather, unsound) Lucius Malfoy's health is at the moment—, but she feels immensely satisfied to see the quiet laughter on his face wiped away, replaced by smooth, white marble.

"He's as well as anyone could expect, Astoria," he says, his voice cold and empty.

His grey eyes have as much life in them as the littered stones she keeps stumbling on, and all at once she's sorry she asked. She shivers when he turns those grey stones on her—she can see the Draco she fears the most, now, and she leans away from the vampire her imagination conjures and suddenly—

A thudding noise, a whimper of pain—Astoria finds herself sitting on her bottom on the cobblestones with a snapped stiletto and a pride very much bruised. What's worse is that Draco is kneeling beside her, and she shies away from the gaze she's sure is full of cruel, triumphant amusement—except that it isn't.

"Astoria, are you hurt?" His voice is full of sincere anxiety, and the eyes that had been so lifeless before are now flickering in consternation.

It's too much.

To Astoria's shame, tears begin filling the corners of her own eyes, and she gulps them down furiously, but he's noticed—

"Astoria, is anything broken? Just tell me—"

"Draco, what are we doing?" she speaks over him, in a voice full of weary finality.

His eyes are narrowed. "Trying to figure out if you're hurt in any way, and it would be a damn lot easier if you told me whether you're feeling any pain."

"I'm not hurt." She nearly smiles at the untruthfulness of her statement. "But Draco, I mean—" the tears are falling thick and fast, now "—what are we doing? This, _us_? What the _hell_ are we doing?"

"I don't understand." His voice is crisp with worry.

"I feel like… I feel like I don't know you, Draco." She scrubs angrily at the faithless water coursing down her cheeks and ruining her cloak. "Half the time you're an entirely different person from the one I care about, and I don't know if—I don't know."

She turns glimmering eyes upon him, and through her blurring tears, she suddenly sees more clearly than she ever has before—and all she sees is a person who's utterly _lost_ without the disguises he clings to so forcefully.

He leans forward and takes her chin in his hand.

"Astoria," he says, hesitantly, "I'm sorry. I really am. But…" he trails away, and then seems to amass enough courage to continue, "I don't know _who_ Iam most of the time, now. Everything I've ever been through… all my experiences have torn me into so many pieces and now I'm just trying to put myself back together again. But with you… I seem to find a little of myself."

Her fear of Draco—her fear _for_ Draco—and her fear of Hallowe'en silently slip away, and all that's left is a joyful, _free_ sensation tingling in her limbs and a dear face agreeably near hers. She understands and is grateful for the former—her fears had been chains, manacles clamped onto her consideration—and she quickly takes advantage of the latter.

When they pull away, breathless and smiling starrily, he puts a solicitous hand on the side of her face and says, "Are you _sure_ you aren't hurt?"

"If I had any injury to speak of when I first fell," she laughs, "I think it would have slipped my mind by now."

"Well then."

"Well then," she teases, "will you help me up so we can go to Italiani's?"

They make it to the restaurant without further incident, but before they step inside, Astoria takes his hand and softly murmurs into his ear, "Thank you, Draco."

His smile is amused. "For what?"

She kisses him gently on the cheek. "For giving me Hallowe'en back."


End file.
